


Song of Ériu

by namio



Series: Song of Ériu [1]
Category: AR∀GO ロンドン市警特殊犯罪捜査官 | Arago
Genre: A nice heap of fake Fae folklore, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Fix-It, Gen, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-04-07 20:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4276266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/namio/pseuds/namio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England is trying to get back on its feet.<br/>The gogmagog attack was by far the worst invasion seen in over a millennium. The world is in a shock. But at least Patchman is gone and the gogmagogs are too, sealed away in the cauldron. Things can recover.</p><p>But of course, things aren't what they seem.</p><p>July Camp NaNoWriMo 2015.</p><p>REWRITING ONGOING</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_What is the price of experience?_  
_Do men buy it for a song?_  
_Or wisdom for a dance in the street?_  
_No, it is bought with the price of all the man hath,_  
_his house, his wife, his children._

\-- William Blake

  

* * *

 

**Song of Ériu**

 

* * *

 

 

 

_On the day the Tuatha Dé Danaan returned to the dew, and the winds, and the springs, so did the Spear of Victory and the Sword of Light. Their strength gathered into small specks and so became Seeds, gleaming like pearls._

_Earth of Ireland then swallowed whole the Lia Fail, the Stone of Destiny, and the Cauldron of Plenty. Sweet music welled up as a great stone rose above the Lia Fail. The land that hid the Cauldron became bountiful._

_And so the Milesians lived in peace. Some of the Tuatha Dé Danaan, however, drew the Faed Feea about themselves and lived in the hills. Their descendants would then become the Aes Sídhe, the People of the Mounds._

_The Seeds departed with blinding light. The Spear of Victory slept within a bowl of milk of poppies. Radiant life shone from the bowl, and from that grew trees. The hill it rested upon became forest, thick and tall._

_The Sword of Light returned to the Plain of Assembly, where the king Nuada once stood. There, the Smith of the Milesian came to it and blessed his best sword with it. The Seed came into the blade, and the sword became glimmering._

_The Aes Sídhe, the People of the Mounds, heard the song from the earth. The pillar of light from the Plain of Assembly told them the Sword of Light was there; but this light is not seen by the others. They saw also the forest that hid the Spear of Victory and knew where it slept. So the Aes Sídhe knew where the Treasures slept. And so they hid._

 

 Excerpt from Aos Sí Folklore, Section II: History, Part 3: People of Cnoc na Riabh, transcribed by Aodhán Miller and Esther Eunice Miller (1835)


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been slowly working on rewriting Song of Eriu, and this is the first chapter, rewritten. The old version will slowly be replaced, and updates on when the new rewritten chapters are uploaded will be announced on tumblr. There's a whole lot to rewrite, and the earlier plot are literally being thrown into the scraps, so this might take a while.

It was hard to look at the rubbles.

England was in tatters after the Gogmagog attack. Skyscrapers within a kilometre radius were obliterated, with the White Horseman’s corpse in the middle; areas without protective fields were smashed down by the roaming monsters, walls splattered with remains of gore and horror. The streets were holed with rubbles and Oz swore that if he ever stepped a foot outside, he’d be stepping right into the rivers of blood that threatened to overwhelm the Thames. The streets were clogged by bits he knew were flesh, clumps that were hair—and it had been twenty, thirty days of nightmares.

He swallowed them down like an adult. He accepted his blames—he accepted the fact that the majority of Londoners died because he didn’t set up more shields, he accepted the fact that only a precious few thousands survived—but God. He spent hours every day trying to convince himself that it was better than nothing. He spent hours every day just trying to convince himself that he did the best he could. If he hadn’t pushed Arago onwards to deal with Patchman instead of saving individuals, the death toll would’ve been higher. He didn’t dare to think otherwise.

It felt hard to even contemplate the thought of outside. Between his recovering body and his new responsibilities over Arago, Rio and Coco, he couldn’t bear to think about the destruction outside. He still had so many things to do—regain his functions, _be less useless_ —and between his old responsibilities and his new ones, he couldn’t bear being proven useless.

But some things had to be done.

George shifted to his other foot behind him as the speaker crackled. “I’m sorry, _what?_ ”

“The seals need to be checked.” Whoever was on the other side made a series of dull thuds, as though they were pacing. “It’s important that we ensure that nothing worse will happen.”

It had been roughly a month since Patchman opened the cauldron of Dagda and released the Gogmagogs that lived within it. It had been roughly a month—or so said the calendar, because Oz didn’t even realise that much time had passed. He spent most of it out cold, sedated—wasn’t supposed to be, but apparently he spent his waking hours so out of it he couldn’t remember most of what happened. His nurse wouldn’t tell him. He became more lucid at the end of the third week, finally remembering sessions where his new physician, Dr. Shannon Hawkins, moved his limbs around. He didn’t remember the supposed first time he met her. But even then, she was still blindingly enthusiastic as she guided his weakened right hand around his stumps and pushed at his fingers to make them massage the skin. They had to do another set of exercise to rebuild the weakened muscles on his hands.

It had been four days since he was allowed to be released—under the care of a nurse, of course, which was why George was here. He was released to the little house where Arago, Rio and Coco lived right now, just outside the boundaries of destruction, and was given two instructions: get better, and get back to watching over them. The three, at first, brightened up at his presence—they cluttered around him, ready to be of service and ready to surround themselves with a familiar figure, but it wasn’t long before the furrow in their eyebrows turned into a glossy sheen in their eyes.

And now, this. George stood in the living room, uncaring of the fact that everyone in the house could hear his outbursts at the phone, while Oz fiddled with the flapping straps on his wheelchair. _We’ll work on your mobility later_ , Dr. Shannon promised, _but for now, you should stay in a wheelchair_. _You’re in no state to be pushed to the limits_. Rio had walked into the room, though she lingered on the doorway, and Arago lounged on the couch, trying and failing to look like he wasn’t eavesdropping. The well-worn magazine in his hand was wilted from his restless flipping, wearing creases onto the pages.

“Do you know how hard it is to walk around outside, much less bring someone in a wheelchair to that place?”

“Do you know how hard it is to convince the masses that they are safe from potential future disasters when you don’t know whether the seals will hold up?” the voice retorted back, dry as the peeling skin of Oz’s stumps. George had been dabbing powders and lotions as he saw fit, but Oz barely knew when was time for what—mustering up the interest was too hard. “Nobody else can do it, not anymore.”

Because everyone else were dead.

George sighed, and it became a crackle of noise that echoed back at them. “Look, if you want to get him there so badly, then I want transportation, people to help, and Dr. Fletcher.”

“I’ll send them over. Get him ready.”

“He’s not a chi—“ But Rio’s sentence was cut off by a long beep, and she ran her hand through her face. Her face still held a trace of a smile underneath the unimpressed thin line, but her slump said everything. Oz said nothing. “I’m sorry, Oz.”

“Nothing to apologise for.”

“Nothing about this is actually ethical,” George snorted, but he only ran his hand over his hair before settling back onto position. “But if they’re going to make you get out of the house, you might as well be at your most comfortable. And nothing is more uncomfortable than sitting in your own muck, so it’s time for you to take a bath.”

Oz only leaned back against the wheelchair, too tired to even try to shrink. His bones creaked as they rubbed against each other, aflame with age, and trying to keep his shoulders from slumping downwards was too much work against gravity. George took this as a resignation and rolled him towards the bathroom.

And thus begun his first day back to work.

 

* * *

 

They carried him and his wheelchair over the rubbles.

He could see Dr. Fletcher’s open mouth—her voiceless, dead protest—and could feel the burn of humiliation creeping in the back of his mind, but mostly, he was tired. George hefted the wheelchair over the jagged rocks and broken bricks and placed it near the broken pillar that used to be the seal, and they put him back into it. The slightly plush seat was almost welcome after the pressure beneath his weak knees and armpits—somehow, he felt less heavy in it. Footsteps receded and footsteps grew, but Oz’s drooped eyes were on the stones.

This was the remnants of Urizen. He could tell from the remains of the cut-off sigil—Duir, the Oak. The throbbing ebb and flow of energies was faint, almost like the fluttering last breaths of a dying man, but it was there. Somehow, it was there.

The seals of the cauldron of Dagda, or the Four Zoa seals, as was called by an ancestral Albion over a century ago, were seals placed by Ogma to protect his people from the Fomorians. The names applied to them were far from accurate—Urizen, with its Duir and its Idho was more about fate, strength and the rules of truth itself—but they had been what stuck. The seals were stone, a strange fact considering that it drew its magical properties by using an Ogham sigil, and to this day, they hadn’t come up with a good way to replace them.

Ogham sigils were a sigil most closely associated with trees. The alphabets themselves each signified a tree. The magic drawn from Ogham worked best with wood, perhaps even _only_ with wood, and yet here there was, a four metres tall block of stone with engraved cuts of a sigil. There were two things almost universally understood by any who dabbled in Ogham magic: one was to use a wood that permitted you to use it, and another was to create the sigil in such a way that it wouldn’t do undue harm to the staff. Somehow, Oz didn’t think they could create any such marks without modern tools—which was right out.

“It needs replacement,” Oz said. “But I’m not quite sure I have the ability to recreate the same exact seal.”

“What do you mean?” The man, assigned by the government to come over, took a step forward. His heels clicked against the rubbles—one would wonder why he wore such shoes in this place. That shoe looked more put-together than Oz felt.

“I don’t have the power to carve into stone without modern tools. I can do it on wood, probably.”

It would take a bit of creativity, since he’d have to increase the potency of normal staves for it to even be part of a seal this big. Usually that meant meditation or asking the Fair Folk, or just intense beliefs. The one who did these kinds of attuning best was Lonan, but she was gone. So now he had two choices: meditate on trees, or ask for help from the worst people possible.

“I’ll probably need the help of the courts to do this, though.” Nobody was going to do Ogham—tree—magic better than creatures that derive their powers from trees. It wasn’t a necessity, but nature-related magic required quite a number of things—namely, an appropriate state of mind. Oz wasn’t in denial about his own slump. “The Seelie and Unseelie Courts.”

“Aren’t Fae Folk untrustworthy?” the government official said. Oz couldn’t recall his name—he couldn’t even tell whether he tuned him out or he outright never said it. Then again, outside of things like logistics, Albion didn’t have any permanent government workers that relayed information from and to the country. He called, and anybody with clearance that could answer would answer.

“They’re not untrustworthy—their definition of trust is just different than ours.” Oz shrugged, though it didn’t feel like he shifted his shoulders enough for it to be visible. “But since this issue is also related to their livelihood, I’d say they’d help us.”

To say that the Fair Folk lived in this world would be, for the most part, incorrect, but so would saying that they weren’t interconnected to this world. Despite the fact that they lived in a dimension tucked away from this one, quite a few still lived in the human worlds. Not all Fair Folk were associated with any of the courts, but not all Fair Folk that coexisted with humans were solitary, either. Brownies, silkies and gremlins didn’t live in the Otherworld, but they were part of the courts nevertheless.

If anything happened to this world, theirs would suffer, too. Not to mention, the Fomorians were the enemies of _their_ ancestors, not human’s.

It always had been just a theory, and perhaps he believed it more than he ought to, but he thought that the Gogmagogs were, in fact, the twisted forms of the Fomorians. After the second battle of Mag Tuired, where Lugh killed Balor, there was the problem of what to do with the Fomorian army. There were multiple accounts, most of them from Fae folklore of various areas, but he personally went with the one where they sealed them in the Cauldron. Was that a good idea? Nope. Probably the most moronic idea Oz had ever heard in his entire life, but that was the reality of things: the cauldron of Dagda was filled with unholy abominations, and they were sealed there. Granted, there were probably other explanations. But regardless, eldritch creatures within a sealed space were eldritch creatures within a sealed space, no matter how they got there.

In any case, as much as it was a hassle, they would need help. Oz ran his hand down his face, rubbing his temples for a moment before letting out a sigh. The Fair Folk were the sort that liked to separate castes, and apply rigorous rules that made contacting anyone in the courts a nightmare. The Fair Folk might have been seen as a race of nature, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have their own politics—while the normal Fae might have been fine with just being a tree spirit, the people of the courts liked having power. And he was human, too, and was he not an Albion, he would’ve been laughed out of the door.

“Then do what needs to be done.”

Oz sighed. “Yes, sir.”

“But Oz is in no state to be going off to far places,” Rio said. “I know that there might not be anyone else who can do it, but can’t you be at least—at least more _helpful_?”

“If he needs help, then it’d be in his best interest to ask for it specifically,” the government official said. “He always got what he needed—all he had to do was ask. This is no different, and if anything, the country will lend him anything he’ll ever need. This order might seem harsh to you, but some people’s work directly affect the survival of many, if not the entire nation, and they ought to keep the needs of many as a priority. It’s not easy, but it’s their duty and responsibility regardless.”

Oz said nothing. To say something was to pick open a scab—something barely healed and ugly, begging to bleed again. In one hand, he wanted to rest. He wanted a few months to himself, where he could catch up on sleep and maybe give a hoot about whatever Dr. Fletcher wanted him to do. Maybe he could even _try_ during Dr. Hawkins’ occupational therapy sessions. On the other hand, he just wanted to get this over with. Maybe if he did what he had to do right now, they’d leave him alone later. He was a machine running on limited energy: he could only try for so long before he got too tired to continue. Even if it was unlikely that they’d leave him be, it was a nice incentive.

“Can we at least go with him?” Coco said, taking a step closer to him. “I mean…”

“Yeah,” Oz cut in. “I have to keep an eye on all of you. You’re all coming with me.”

It would probably be easier if they all moved to Gargunnock base, or somewhere in northern Scotland. The Summer Court was in Argyll, and the Winter Court was in Ireland. Of course, they would all converge in one of the Courts, and preferably it would be the Summer one, but sticking close was preferable. He doubted that every problem would be solved within one meet up, especially when politics was involved.

“Let’s go back.”

“What about the rest?” the government official said.

“You have to synchronise all of them,” Oz sighed out. The words dragged out of him like the last of his breaths, and he slumped back against the back of the chair. They’d have to remake all of them, regardless of how many broke; materials had to match: wood with wood, stone with stone. “Let’s go back.”

As soon as possible. That meant he’d have to arrange transportation and where to live, and draft a letter to the Summer Court. He felt like doing none of that. The first two required making calls, and the last one required being thoughtful and courteous, and he had no energy to do either of that. He could probably ask someone to help make the call—maybe Rio, or Dr. Fletcher, or maybe even George—but he’d have to list out the things he needed, and he couldn’t get out of writing that letter. Then again, asking for others to help him with the call was probably more hassle than it was worth.

He just felt so, so tired.

“If that’s all, then we should get back,” George said. “Unless there are other businesses you have to tend to?”

Oz shook his head.

“Let’s go, then.”

It was nice, having someone else take charge. Oz had been doing things by himself for the past year—driving, killing, planning—and while it felt okay back then, right now he just didn’t want to be responsible for anything. But the reality was that he did have responsibilities, and those responsibilities require him to act immediately, so here he was.

They got him back to the car. It was a large, ugly, but sturdy thing, as nothing else could really go around in these rubble-ridden streets. His hand slipped as he tried to haul himself in, and he didn’t do anything to regain his grip. Arago, already inside, grabbed his arm and pulled.

“Thanks,” George said, getting into the car after him. The girls sat in the back, and Dr. Fletcher was on shotgun, eyeing him on the mirror. Right—she was supposed to talk with the other three. Though they all seemed to be doing fine, they certainly needed the counselling a psychiatrist could give. They might not need it as much as he did, but Oz was sure that Arago could use some help.

That thought reminded him of Ewan. Ewan flung himself off into the cauldron, didn’t he? Renewing the seal would mean that they condemned him into being entombed in there, where he’d be forgotten forever. The cauldron was not a public place, and there was only so much they could do to ‘honour’ the fallen heroes. Look at Albion—they just stuck a cross at random spots on the ground, because for the most part, there were no bodies left to recover. His siblings were just a pile of random, charred bones. He wasn’t even awake when they finally got the crosses—he was at the hospital from exhaustion, dehydration and infection.

 Maybe Albion had it better. But maybe not.

Either way, it was all death.


	3. Chapter 2

“Is this all?” Coco’s voice seemed to echo in the now empty rooms of the apartment. A chorus of affirmatives answered her questions, and Oz pushed himself off the couch as everyone started to leave the living room, all holding rolling suitcases.

It had been five days since Oz’s announcement and everyone took it surprisingly well. Coco expressed doubts for her abilities, and Rio admitted that she didn’t think that she could do such intensive concentration training, but he only told them to relax and judge their abilities once they started. “Before starting is not an acceptable place to judge yourself,” he had said. “You can only do that once you start.”

And now here they were, walking down the stairs to leave the place they lived in for a good month and a half. He’d miss it, maybe. But he missed it less than he missed the expansive house he called home, the hallways filled with ghosts of his past. The child in him rejoiced. The adult just wanted them back. Oz just wanted to be enveloped by his family and his home.

Arago propped him up as they descended the stairs, saying nothing as his clumsy prosthesis caught on the edges of the steps and made him stumble. He supposed that it was better than the immediate aftermath of the battle on the top of... whatever tower that was. They’d waited for a helicopter to see them after Oz flatly said that he would slip so hard it wouldn’t even be funny.

A rush of chilling September air whisked past them as soon as they got out. Outside, everything was _loud_ —construction workers yelling orders, cement cars whirring, cranks and chains creaking—and yet it felt alive, felt like progress, and Oz would take a broken city rebuilding than the screams he heard in the near apocalypse. The streets were bare of women and children, making it feel flat, but he supposed it was only natural.

A large car pulled up in front of them, and from it came two uniformed men, both soldiers. Oz could feel Arago tensing and Coco taking a step back. But he only nodded at them as they stood in front of him, back straight.

“Mr. Miller.”

“Ah.”

“Are we going now, sir?”

He could feel Coco and Rio stare at him, but he supposed that Arago was more baffled by the way he casually talked with the Royal Air Force. They’d been his acquaintances since he was 16 and jumping into frays from the sky. Albion had no fancy transportation other than horses—whom he dearly missed—which was why they sometimes bossed around the Royal Air Force. He relied on the army far less, since he could drive on his own, thank you very much, but at least it seemed like they had a semblance of respect for him.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

And with that the two men took their suitcases, putting them in the boot. Oz pushed Arago towards the car and nodded to the girls to get in. Arago grumbled under his breath but climbed in anyway, sitting in the back row. Oz wobbled to the middle row, pressed against the door as Coco and Rio shuffled in. One of the soldiers closed the door for them and climbed into the front seats, the driver looking at the mirror as he turned on the car.

“Airport, sir?”

“Mhm.” It probably would be a ten minutes ride, considering they’re not far but also the road construction, but Oz couldn’t help feeling sleepiness settle in. He’d been having random periodic sleepiness, one he worried would impair his ability to do his duties, but the doctor said that his body was just trying to aggressively recuperate after some severe, unknown internal damage. He lived through having Claíomh Solais planted inside him, but it seemed like living through wasn’t the same as escaping unscathed. His rehabilitation started out as normal until his other doctors pointed out that he had "sarcoidosis", too—lungs, heart, kidney and skin—and they forced him to rest more.

His personal doctor, who had been the one he consulted to for the past two years, grilled him. _“It’s a problem when you don’t tell others that you got hurt, Oz,”_ she said then, jabbing his chest. _“No matter how adept you Albions are at patching yourself up after getting hurt, the brain in survival mode overlooks too many things. You’ll discard hygiene for quick relief.”_

Which was a gross underestimation of his will to live, really. Oz might be suicidal, but he preferred to go out in a more honourable way than dead from a fever.

Then there was his therapist. Following the almost apocalypse, he’d been consuming a steady stream of medication. He’d been cut off from his antidepressants. The first week, filled with painkillers, had been fine, but then he regained his lucidity and—well. He nearly flung out of the window in the middle of the day when the telly showed the news.

“Mr. Miller? We’re here.”

The next few minutes were half asleep herding, as the soldiers led them through the security. He vaguely recalled tickets and being forced to walk up some steps, limping all the while, but everything else was fuzzy.

By the time they settled down on the small plane, Oz was asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Oz woke up to a familiar voice—one he hadn’t heard in years. He’d been herded by Arago, who pushed his wheelchair after they got off the plane, and fallen back asleep until his brain roused awake at the voice. Mind still foggy, he looked up to see—

The caretaker.

Charlie had been part of the Albion house for as long as Oz could remember. The man was fairly old—Oz was sure it was in the late forties at least—but he’d always been this determined guy, willing to jump into the dirt to get the bulk of the work done. He took care of the garden and helped them clean the horses whenever that wasn’t in the Albion’s schedule, and sometimes he’d entertain them by telling them about things like weddings, Christmas, and stuffs The Commander didn’t have time to talk about.

Oz remembered the time that he and his siblings dragged the man to play with them, too—at first he protested that making flower crowns were for girls and that the boys shouldn’t play things like that too but they booed him and forced him to make daisy chains. After that, Oz was pretty sure his perception of gendered activities was gone. He had a soft spot for Gil, after all, who always whispered him secrets she heard and sometimes helped him with work when she felt like being alone.

“Hey,” Oz rasped out. Charlie, now a clearer face than the fuzzy image his brain produced, grinned.

“Hey to you, too, busy guy,” he replied. Oz laughed. “Coming back home, eh?”

“Yeah.” Home.

Arago’s place as his wheelchair pusher was taken by Charlie, and the others hovered beside him instead, rolling their suitcases on the short, dirt path to the house. The large, white structure looked like a simple manor from outside, the walls somehow still bright despite the centuries. It was deceptively grand—the interior, if it hadn’t been changed, often felt small for an adult, and the halls only had space for two people. Whenever they all have to walk to one room, Willow would make ducklings gestures as Fraser or Edna led. Whenever Fraser had his spear as he walked, they were all sheep.

“This place hadn’t been changed since you left,” Charlie said as they stopped. He talked as he opened the door. “Which was, what? A year?”

“Roughly that, yeah.”

“That said, I didn’t go in there. Only the maids did, to keep it from being too dusty. But I don’t think anything was moved. Better not.”

Oz mustered a small smile, holding up his hand. “I think they’d have to be moved now, Charlie. These three are going to live here now, for a few months at least. Are they still here? I need Fraser’s, Edna’s, and Gil’s things moved to mine.”

Charlie froze. “Are you sure?”

He couldn’t disturb anyone else’s. He couldn’t bear the thought. With Fraser, Edna, and Gil, he had the knowledge that they loved him unconditionally, no matter what he did after their death. He had the memories to keep him going. But for the others—but for Angie, Mike, Lonan, Willow, Blaise, Kevin, all he had were their rooms. All he had were the steadily yellowing photos Mike took, his gifts for them and regrets. Letting go of that was terrifying.

“Yes. I need them moved, I’ll sort it all out myself.” Charlie looked at him for several moments, expression unreadable. But his aura flickered in uncertainty, like questions and sadness. “Come on, let’s go in. We’re ordering food for tonight.”

Charlie shook his head before pushing him inside. Oz could feel Arago’s uneasy aura behind him, along with Rio’s and Coco’s hesitant ones. But he schooled his own into a semblance of composure, trying not to stare too long at the walls. Out of the corner of his vision he could see scratch marks—Fraser’s spear for the one up high, Edna’s knife for the one waist height, and he could even see the mass of crumbling dent from the time the Commander accidentally smacked his war mace against the wall. There were too many memories, and they’d been walking down the _main hall_.

“We should get settled in the rooms before ordering food,” Oz said as they passed by the kitchen. Other than the curtains being changed from its usual faded floral fabric to a sheer lavender one, nothing had changed. “Though if the maids are taking their time getting here, you guys can just put the suitcases inside and then head to the kitchen.”

“I’ll call ‘em,” Charlie said. “And Maria’s here.”

Oz blinked. “She is?”

After he had been assigned to London, Oz had gotten Maria a job off at a local inn. She had refused taking wages when she didn’t even work for it, and he didn’t want her to drift around like a ghost, looking after the large house without any real purpose. He actually had proposed she worked at the inn right after everyone’s deaths, but she shook her head and said that someone needed to take care of him. And when he left, well.

Only Charlie and the maids he hired to keep the place dust free stayed. There had been no need for anyone else—Oz already gave Charlie the permission to have the horses, now old, be rented out for walks and that took care the question of what he’d do with the dozen of horses in the stable. He’d gotten the news that the Commander’s, a sweet but confident grey Andalusian named Arden, died a few months ago. Angie’s and Mike’s, Aubrie and Clemency respectively, were both around 26 now, and though Arden died at age 29, Oz was starting to feel a little dread. Charlie paid them extra attention, but Oz couldn’t help but feel like he should be there for them for the last few years of their lives, unlike the way he’d only been able to stare at the fire in horror.

“Yeah. She heard you were coming back for a while. Said that you were a menace, but you’re her menace. You lot are.”

He couldn’t stop the burst of laughter than exploded. Of course, of course. Two of Maria’s nightmares were these: him and Willow. There were several reasons, mostly involving “food” and “fight” but also the Lemonade, and then they were never allowed to speak about the lemon chicken. The truth was that the truly bad ones weren’t even his or Willow’s faults—they were actually, surprisingly enough, Blaise’s—but they were sort of notorious tease and well, he guessed he deserved it.

“She _loves_ me,” he answered instead. Charlie only chortled before wheeling him down to his room. The others followed, surprisingly quiet, and the sounds of wheels rolling on the floor echoed in the small hall. They passed by Mike’s room, then Angie’s, and he felt a sharp stab in his heart when they passed the room Kevin was going to take after his first—and last—mission.

He promised to take the kid out for drinks after he finished, after all.

“All right, so,” Oz said once they were in front of Fraser’s room. The line up was like this: Fraser’s room sat right in the middle of the halls, then Oz’s was next to it. Tim took the next one, with Gil’s being the second from the end of the hall. Edna’s was on the very edge. It belonged to her parents before they passed away a little over twenty years ago. The same with Tim, and Fraser, and his, really. They all took their parents’ former rooms as a form of closure. Gil, having never known who her parents were, took Edna’s mother’s former room.

It had been hard, moving Edna’s parents’ things out of their room. Uncle Harlan and Aunt Janet were the only parents who lived to raise them to their childhood years. Fraser’s parents died when he was one years old. Oz’s own parents died when he was three—in two separate missions, with a four months gap between. Tim’s died during childbirth; Oz was four. Angie and Lonan’s parents lived until Angie was eleven, too, but they had been part of Albion who lived in Northern Ireland. That section was dissolved after the last people to comprise it, Angie and Lonan’s parents and Mike’s parents, died.

Edna cried when she stared at her parents’ furniture sitting there, a bit messy after Uncle Harlan forgot to close the windows again and Aunt Janet forgot her other glove. He and the others—just the five of them then, the inseparable five—hugged her. Tim was two and latched onto Edna’s legs, while three years old Gil hugged her arm. Oz and Fraser were five and were big, and their grubby arms wrapped around her in a messy bear hug. She cried on them, cheeks and nose and eyes red and chest heaving, and they fell asleep in the Commander’s bed as he told them stories about their parents.

“Arago, you can take Fraser’s room right here,” he said, nodding at the door. “Please don’t mess it up too much. Fraser keeps it messy enough.”

It was true. He was neat and intelligent with his tactics and analysis and all, but his room was an inspiration for abstract painter: it was hard to tell what everything was supposed to be. Papers were everywhere, littering his bed and his bedside table, and his work desk, and his chair and sometimes even slipped on the windows, to which Tim commented that “the white contrasts his dark blue curtains nicely”. Arago opened the door with a hesitant click, and, ah.

“Well, kept.” He’s not around to keep it messy now.

And Oz wasn’t sure why he expected the messiness to still be around. He himself tidied the room up, slowly but steadily turning the flurry of papers into a stack. They were all important documents, which was why Oz took three days just to sort it out. It was rather hard to read with tears in his eyes.

Everything else, though, was still there. Arago gingerly set his suitcase next to the bed—still with its night sky comforter, with _their_ constellations sewn in by Gil as her Christmas present for him—and walked back outside, as though reluctant to linger too long in the memories only Oz could see.

“My room is right next to yours,” Oz said, before motioning the other to follow him to Gil’s room. Charlie rolled him down without a sound now, most likely reminded of the kids he used to babysit. Who are now gone.

Oz opened Gil’s and Edna’s room himself, letting reality bite into his heart. Fraser’s room still hurt, though he’d gone and stayed in it for days and thought the numbness would set in sometime soon, but there was a different kind of pain looking at Gil’s and Edna’s. Fraser had always been the sort of social type, liking to hang out in the living room couch. He was the one greeting those who just came back, be it from the grocer or a mission. But Gil liked to hole up in here, often petting the deer that sometimes wandered from the backyard forest, and Edna was in her room half the time, sometimes texting her girlfriend or reading those dog novels he got her. Sometimes she’d pat his head as he dozed off across her thighs.

“You two can choose whichever,” he said, pushing those memories into the back of his head.There was no point in holding on so tightly into things he had to let go.

“Oz...” Coco murmured, and he flashed her a small smile.

“I can’t cling to this forever,” he admitted.

He clung to it for quite a while now. Admittedly, he had all the rights to—his therapist said that he definitely deserved and needed the closure he got from this, as the country didn’t give him enough time to grieve properly. He had been on the verge of falling apart for so long. But even though he still felt the wounds were raw, even if he wasn’t ready, he knew that one way or another he had to let go. And well, this was one way to do it. A finalisation, a way to say that yes, they’re gone now, and there will be others replacing them.

Suddenly, he found himself short of air.

“Calm down there kid,” Charlie said. “Just because you’re changing the room doesn’t mean you’re changing anything in your memory. Take pictures if you need to. You gotta keep your head.”

“That’s a good idea,” Rio said. She stepped forward, holding out her phone. At Oz’s nod, she went in. The five minutes was filled with silence, hanging like promises cut short.

Rio came back out from Edna’s room with a small smile on her face, the kind that would shatter, one that usually came from seeing something too fragile for words.  She nodded at him, hands clutching her phone. Oz couldn’t help but have a newfound appreciation for the girl—she understood the importance of acknowledgement and the role of holding onto mosaic normalcy in moving on and healing. If he couldn’t hold onto what was there, then at the very least she offered something to remind him of it.

“So, did you choose?”

They came back again after two minutes with little nods. “Rio is taking the one on the end of the hall,” Coco said, fiddling with her thumbs.

“All right,” he said. A pang pricked his heart again, but he placed a mental blanket over it, trying to soothe it to sleep. It throbbed like hiccups, but like a crying child too tired to continue, it pattered out. He turned to Charlie. “Do you think Maria cooked anything?”

Charlie patted his head, and Oz didn’t even bother to swat it away. Most people wouldn’t even _dare_ do such a thing, especially ones who knew that he was a special soldier employed right under the Queen, but Charlie was an exception. Granted, the man already knew him back when he still almost cried after having bleeding scrapes.

“Of course she did. Once she heard you’re coming here, she made a toad-in-the-hole and a bunch of pies. Probably too much for the four of you, but better too much than too little, eh?”

That might have been the case back when they were kids with insatiable appetites for bangers and mash and could still somehow stuff some pie down their stomachs despite eating all that, but Oz doubted that was a good thing now. Ever since the majority of them grew up, the amount of food grew steadily less, in order to make sure that there was no waste. Special or not, they were still soldiers who had high appreciation for food that weren't hastily made in the middle of cold, rank swamps. Still, he supposed they could give out the excess. That, or they could put it aside in case anyone got hungry.

"Sounds good," he said. Charlie clasped his shoulder before shooing the others aside. After a bit of a... manoeuvre in the small hall, they rolled back down to the kitchen. There was a somewhat lighter atmosphere now, Oz noted with a fleeting smile. "Say, are you going off after this?"

"Hmm?" Charlie tapped his fingers on the handles of the wheelchair, humming to himself. "Sadly yeah. Gotta tend to the horses. You prolly should check on them once you're back to moving around on your own, eh? Lil' Unicorn's missing you."

Arago nearly snorted himself into bumping into a wall at that. Oz let out a short bark of laugh. He almost forgot how that would've sounded to anyone who wasn't them. It had  been sort of a joke, but 6 years old Oz was very passionate about the name. It had been the name of his plush, after all, the one that his mother gave him as a child. It was one of the few things he had from his parents. Aunt Janet told him that his mum chose a unicorn so that he would have a protector, because unicorns were protectors of the protectors. Six years old him gobbled the story up with wide eyes and pink cheeks, entranced by stories of things he couldn't affirm. And so the light grey horse was christened Unicorn, unknowing of how its name would sound years down the line.

Oz cooed. "She's my baby all right."

More gagging noises came from Arago as he stumbled after them, still making faces. Oz laughed. It was fun to "gross" him out, so to say-- he gagged at everything. To this day, he still gagged at the taste of coffee that he insisted on drinking. His mouth made no words, but his eyes screamed _why, Ewan. Why._ And Oz totally understood why Seth was such a little shit.

They rolled into the living room and true enough, Maria was there, setting the table. The woman looked up and smiled at them with that stern smile of hers, moving back once she placed the last of the food-- an apple pie, far too good for this world-- and crossing her arms. Oz raised his arms.

Maria hadn't changed much in the past two years. She was already in her fifties when Oz had her move to the hotel, but she was still strong backed, stern and unrelenting. Her face was lined with age, but there was still that determination in it, too, one that shone even though her task was preparing breakfast, lunch and dinner. Not even three decades of this chipped away at her personality, and even now she was still that no nonsensical person, one whose greatest grief was him.

"This all better be eaten by dinner," she said. "All of it."

A toad-in-the-hole, a mince pie and an apple pie. Oz's eyebrows rose high.

"Are we allowed to feed some of it to the cats?" he asked. Her glare was familiar and _soft_. She was getting soft on him. Oz never thought he'd see the day.

"I will feed you to the cats if you dare give any of the apple pie to the cats, Oz."

"Aww," Oz said. "But I'm tasty."

Arago's face was an indescribable mixture of _why, that's a lie,_ and _oh come on_. Oz would beg to differ. He tasted like rainbows and fairy dust. People would clamour to get a bit of his shining, sparkling personality.

But he would back down for now. "Sit down," he told the others, nodding at the neatly made table. There were twelve chairs-- seemed like the others hadn't moved all the others' chairs-- and more than enough space. Coco and Rio sat next to each other, near the head of the table, and Arago sat down on the other side, eyeing the apple pie. Oz snorted as he rolled near Arago. Charlie dragged the chair out of the way and Oz nodded his thanks before rolling into place. It took a bit of manoeuvring to turn with only one arm, but he did it. If he bumped into Arago's chair enough time to get kicked back, nobody said anything.

In the end, Maria only pinched his cheeks real hard and ruffled his hair so harshly his ponytail came off. He supposed it was pent up frustration over his child self's antics as well, since he was pretty insufferable. Oz survived through the assault with a huge, unrepentant grin, and a little card with an address Oz knew was the church.

“I have to go for now,” she said, putting her cardigan back on. Oz paused mid-bite, mouth half chewing the banger. Half of the toad-in-the-hole was gone, thanks to both Rio and Arago, but apparently five minutes of staring at kids eating was enough for Maria. “I’ll be back for dinner. Remember, no leftovers.”

Oz saluted with his fork and banger. “Will do, ma’am.”

And so she left, leaving the old, stained floral curtains fluttering in the breeze. Charlie left after ruffling his hair and saying something about old horses and picky eaters. Oz waved at him with a potato instead. The others ate with gusto, and well, at least that meant that they wouldn’t be so worried about finishing it off.

“Okay,” Oz started once Arago finished half moaning over the apple pie. It was kind of creepy. “Sorry to get back down to business so fast, but it’s kind of important. I’ll be going off to the Courts tomorrow morning. Your teachers will arrive tonight. We have discussed things such as locations and I have to say, they’re pretty nice. But still, I want you to remember that you should always report if your teacher doesn’t fit you. If you feel uncomfortable, tell Charlie. He will find you a new one. Our priority is to find a teacher that fits you, not making you fit them.”

Oz himself wasn’t familiar with Choi Iseul, but she was one of Gil’s acquaintances and a part time yoga teacher. He had never even met her. Gil only talked about the woman twice or thrice, and only during the few months she focused on meditation to sharpen her senses. Rio wasn’t exactly Gil, but well, Oz would rather trust an associate than someone he didn’t know at all.

The Leprechaun was, however, more familiar to him. There were, indeed, several Leprechauns in the United Kingdom in general, and this one wasn’t the one he met most often, but he was a close acquaintance by now. Oz grew up knowing the one in Edinburgh. The one in London seemed to be a brother in position of sorts. Fae was a term used for quite several races, but in general, it referred to people who followed or used to follow the Courts. Oz was certain there were people who weren’t fae in the Court-- Summer, in particular-- but they always were referred to as faes. Oz never got a close look on them, but they were certainly far taller and lacked the distinct air of mischief most fae had. But even so, they seemed to follow the fae caste system, and they were in high position. Court circle, maybe. All Leprechauns, however, were right under that circle. Their talents were rare and prized and their position reflected that.

So it was, indeed, quite an honour to get a Leprechaun teaching magic.

“Same goes to you, Coco. I know he’ll be a fae but Charlie will send me a letter and I will ask directly to the courts. So you have nothing to worry about.”

“Where is this ‘courts’ anyway?” Arago said, mouth still full of apple pie. “I’ve never heard of such a thing?”

Oz snorted. “That’s because you can’t enter it just like that. Not to mention that if you try without having someone protecting you you will probably get pelted by the commoner faes. They’re a crazy bunch.”

True story: when he was a child, those fae tried to lure him and the others with candies and honey and cream. They all resisted it, knowing that they couldn’t disappoint the Commander, and they were all glad. Any child who veered off the path and away from the protection of someone, in that case the Commander, was eaten. Fun.

“Yeah, but _where_ is it?”

“Well, it’s all around us, to be honest.” Oz nodded towards the window. “Technically the land outside of Albion’s hold is already part of the Fae’s commoner village. They’re not big places, but there’s quite a number of them. The question isn’t where it is, but can we see it or not. And the answer to that is sort of.”

Arago’s scowl was accompanied with a flare of annoyance. For someone who could see auras, he sure didn’t watch his own. “You’re starting to sound like Seth, with that annoying avoiding the question thing.”

Oz’s laugh surprised even himself. “I’m not avoiding it. You can sort of see it, that’s true. But entering it requires a bit of a ritual, in a way. You have to do a bunch of things to make sure you’re protected from what they might throw at you, and entering their world takes a bit of effort. I’m just not telling you in case you try to do it yourself.”

Because if there was anything worse than walking into the commoner area of Fae villages, then it was being an impulsive, easily riled up person walking into the commoner area of Fae villages. There was a reason why Oz developed such easygoing personality and a tight control over his aura. If they caught you being anything but a ray of fake sunshine with heart cold as stone, they were going to prey after you so hard it wasn’t even funny.

“How long are you going to stay again?” Rio asked.

“Hopefully less than three months.”

That was a problem for his therapists, too, who frowned and said that prolonged amount of sitting-- especially for _three months_ \-- will most likely completely undo all progress he did during the past month. He was supposed to follow a strict series of therapy for his muscles, and it pained Oz to go back to being immobile, but sacrifices had to be made. He might have to redo his therapy or perhaps might even ruin his legs, but well, he was bound to protecting the country. He was supposed to be dead anyway.

“That’s… a long time.” Coco’s voice was hesitant, and her fork hovered over the piece of apple pie. “Are we only supposed to train during this entire time?”

Oz leaned back against his wheelchair, dropping his spoon on the plate. “Hmm, well, not really. You’re not going to only be doing that. For one, I think you will end up fighting off things now and then, since you’re all now in the contact list of supernatural emergency. But both of you are new to this. I’m still debating on what to do with that, but so far I haven’t come up with anything yet.”

“I can watch over them,” Arago said.

“No, you can’t,” Oz said, voice flat. “You don’t even look left and right before crossing a battlefield when you know there’s a sniper on the loose.”

Oz was still bitter over that one, sue him. Arago was ready to turn nearly a century of effort from Albion into nothing, and only Joe’s quick thinking saved him. He owed Joe one for that.

Rio’s glare of disbelief was almost satisfying, especially since Arago withered a little bit. His haughty side won, though, as he scowled instead, huffing. It was a miracle that he survived in the streets for so long. He sure was quick to lie his life down for petty reasons.

“Anyway,” Oz started. “I think for a while I will have to ask some people from the Force to help you. They’re familiar with danger and can gauge whether it was possible to have a quick battle or whether it was better to run away. They’re not trained for this particular thing but, well… We have no other options.”

If only the little devil was here. The kid wasn’t half bad, and he was good at judging situations. If he was still around, Oz wouldn’t hesitate to try to bribe him to look out after the others. Granted, bribing someone to babysit Arago would probably eat up half the Treasury.

But the kid wasn’t here, and Joe was dead, and now their best choice was the military. Oz resigned himself to subpar decisions long ago, but he was a lot less certain when it come to others. Especially others who were now entrusted with the safety of the nation. Especially when it took him ten years of training before he even started.

“It’ll be okay,” he reassured. It wasn’t going to be. “Just try to do your best.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Albion feels? Albion feels.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oz heads to the Summer Court.

Five AM. Mist was heavy this particular morning, clinging to his exposed neck as he urged Unicorn into a slow trot. It was a bit strange, but Oz couldn’t really say anything about the weather. It just happened. Taking a deep breath, he palmed the flowers in his pocket and walked down the small hill towards the Elder tree.

Albion had special places for special circumstances. This was one of them. The hill with the tree had no particular name, but the tree hill was a pretty simple and accurate one: surrounding the Elder were other Fae trees, arranged in a circular order. Trees that would either protect from or please the fae, all specially planted for occasions in which they visit the otherworld.

Mist clung as Oz steered his way past the Hawthorn and Rowan and onto the centre of the circle. But even so, the birds seemed to be ecstatic, chirping more often than usual. He was somewhat worried, to be honest. Daisies and Rowan berries shifted in his pocket. Though he generally received genial welcome, being sworn to their Queens too, but he wasn’t about to test it.

And as they stood under the Elder tree, everything changed. The empty hills beyond the Albion house was suddenly filled with small mound houses, with dirt paths engraved along the string of abodes. Lazy smoke from hearths puffed from small chimneys, thin as the fire was reignited for the morning. Faes differ like humans, but the majority preferred to stay out at night, with daybreak being the sign that the day’s fun was over. And Oz choosing such an early hour was intentional-- at this hour, though they were still awake, none would go out of their way to bother him.

“Come on.”

Unicorn neighed his distaste but walked anyway, ever the loyal steed. He never did like the place, being victim of quite a few fae pranks, but he also rarely outright rejected to do things Oz asked him to do. He had been Oz’s horse for all his life, after all. When Oz was six, Unicorn was one. As such, he had been spending nineteen years of its life under Oz’s care.

“Sorry bud,” Oz said as they trotted down into the inner city. “I’ll give you extra snack after this. Sound good?”

Unicorn whinnied, and Oz laughed as he urged him to a faster trot. The light rush of wind was refreshing against his face, a welcome change from the constant hit of exhaust fumes back in London, and Oz let the comfortable rhythm lull him. The path was quiet but not silent, as muted conversations drifted out of homes and some fae strolled around, eyeing him, and Oz smiled to himself.

It had been a very long time since he had the chance to enjoy going anywhere. Over two years, maybe. The past year had been a whole lot of nothing, as he slept through car rides and flights whenever he could, eager to snatch any little bit of rest. He barely saw home then, much less the horses. And it seemed like Unicorn missed him, as he immediately rubbed against him as Oz visited the stables.

“I hope you’re not feeling the age catching up to you, bud,” Oz said as they left the Gargunnock fae village. Unicorn’s snort was almost offended.

The Summer Court was a large Fae settlement in Craignish, just a bit above Loch Craignish. It was well connected to the rest of the fae villages, with bridges that leapt above rivers and even mountains for ease of travel, and it was the only thing that made this trip only a day long and not two. Had he tried to trot there in the human world, he would’ve needed days. That, and a lot of strange looks. Maybe even some fines. He wasn’t sure if horses were allowed to wander so freely.

And the Summer Court was the agreed place of meeting, where he and both the Unseelie and Seelie Queens were to meet for the creation of the new Four Zoa seals. They had graciously gotten the stones for him, so there was no need to haul stones, though had it been the Autumn Queen, she’d had him bring his own. She was a bit of a mischievous soul with a tendency to prank the Albions, making them do things only to reveal that she took care of that for them. It would’ve been funny if it didn’t usually involve making their trips three times longer than it could’ve been.

It wasn’t long before Oz left the first village. The sun was barely shining on the trees then, still a shy light, and it seemed like Unicorn was in a good mood. Oz would’ve petted him had he not just one arm. He wasn’t keen on letting go of the reins just yet, after nearly two full years of not riding. But lack of pets didn’t seem to slow Unicorn down, as he enthusiastically trotted down the dirt path, dark mane swishing and grazing Oz’s temporary prosthesis.

Ooh boy. The Queens were going to have so many questions.

The sun was much higher when they entered the second village. The ones near to the base of the mountains were less friendly towards humans, but even though they peered at him with distaste from their houses, none of them did anything. Any complaints on their lips died out once they saw his uniform and the badge of the Tudor rose, sign of a human ambassador. Oz admittedly found it satisfying, seeing them shut up for once.

“Do you want to rest, boy?” Oz asked, rubbing Unicorn’s neck. The neigh sounded like a yes, and so Oz steered the horse to the resting area he knew was here. Faes don’t generally use horses—they’d too short for it anyway—but at time they would steal ponies and needed to feed the thing, and so they built these resting places. It had water, and Oz could ride out of the village for grass.

Oz didn’t really trust the fae this far out from the courts. Court circles might be arse-kissers, but at least those kind of people were predictable.

Unicorn neighed as they walked into the little area. This one was very simple, like a nook with a roof, though Oz had to dismount and duck so that he wouldn’t smash his face onto the supporting ceiling beams. Little clumps of straw fell onto his head anyway, and Unicorn sniffed at it before Oz shooed him.

“No eating heads, Unicorn.”

His horse did _not_ make a disappointed snort. Oz refused this. Shaking his head, he turned instead to kneel by the water trough. It _was_ filled with water, with a magic rune for its refill etched on its side, but…

Oz’s thumb brushed against the mark, and he could feel something else. _nGéadal._ Nope. He was so going to get whoever did this.

“Come on, baby,” Oz muttered, leading Unicorn out. The horse neighed his confusion. “I can’t believe someone would try to kill you. Let’s just leave.”

nGéadal. The glossed meaning of the letter was _fern_ , but he knew its origins. The word meant killing, or slay. Added with magic, it wouldn’t take long for the water to murder his beloved horse. Neither Oz nor Unicorn was surprised by it—Unicorn was so, so used to it during the few years Oz was knee deep in fae politics—but Oz was sure pissed that they would still do such a thing.

A stream, then. He knew there was one not far from the village, but he had been riding Unicorn for the past few hours and thought he could let him rest. Oh well. He wanted him to rest, not rest in peace. “C’mon.”

Unicorn walked slowly beside him as he hobbled the rest of the way. His amputated leg was doing better these days, but it was still prone to weakness. He was lucky he lost his leg under the knee, but that was still more energy than he currently had. This would probably mean nothing if he was at his condition prior to all this mess, but Oz these days was a recovering amputee with healing internal damages. Whatever Claiomh Solais did to him, it was potent—sometimes he coughed specks of blood.

Dark mane brushed against his cheek and Oz looked up only to be nuzzled. Laughing, he rubbed Unicorn’s cheek and pressed a kiss against his forehead. “Love you too, buddy.” The whisper was muffled, but Unicorn neighed anyway.

Leaving the fae village was a relief, and Oz didn’t miss the place. Used to it or not, he’d rather not deal with the easily offended bunch. Which reminded him… He hadn’t taught Rio and Arago Fae manners. He should’ve asked Coco. Now they were all doomed. He’d probably come home to a thoroughly egged house. Or missing horses. Or weapons enchanted to not work when he needed them to.

“I’ve made a mistake…”

Unicorn only neighed in agreement.

The stream came into view and Oz tugged them over to its side. The otherworld was a chaotic place at best, but the nature was a forgiving, nice place. It wasn’t hard to see why they were so revered. Other than being the source of their magic, it was also welcoming. Trees that peppered their path were ancient and curling, streaks of white colouring the dark bark, and the leaves hung low enough to brush against their heads. Everything glimmered with untapped magic.

“Here you go. Do you want to graze for a bit?”

The only reply he got was enthusiastic swish of tail as Unicorn drank. Oz laughed and plopped down, pulling out his own bottle from the bags. His fingers grazed a metallic cylinder and he grabbed it, eyebrows furrowed. A thermos?

It took a bit of effort to open it with one hand, but his knees helped. The scent of Earl Grey wafted out and Oz grinned.

Maria _was_ getting soft on him.

Unicorn’s tail swished against him again and Oz patted his body. The horse only nudged his face against Oz’s before he wandered off to graze. It was a nice morning, he mused as he poured some of the tea onto the thermos head. The chirping birds flew near him, unreserved, and fish swam in the clear water. Red leaves left ripples as it fell onto the surface of the stream.

He could almost forget that he was here to prevent a redo of the almost-apocalypse.

 

* * *

 

 

It was late when he arrived in the city of the Summer Court. The streets twinkled with warm lantern glows and mystical fireflies as everything bustled with life. The centre of any country or kingdom was always a lively place, and the Summer Court was no exception. Long-eared fae shouted and walked and talked, though they kept some space between them and Unicorn. The horse himself had slowed to a walk, though Oz could feel his itch to move faster.

But it wasn’t long before they reached the Summer Court gates. Two imposing white trees stood three metres apart, magic runes lining the bark. Intricately engraved gates were nestled between them, glimmering, and only a blind man would miss the painful brightness of the mirror-like pieces between the wooden lines. The Summer Court was bright and proud, and the tall gates reflected that.

And having it open as soon as he stepped close was very satisfying.

“Albion,” a servant said, bowing. “We were expecting you.”

Oz bowed his head before following him, hand on Unicorn’s neck. Another fae came and took the horse away. Unicorn looked at him before turning to walk away, tugs too insistent to ignore. Suddenly Oz missed him. It had been so long and they spent so little time together and engraving runes for months sounded so _daunting_. He was too old to whine for comfort, but that didn’t stop his inner voice from doing it. What he could do, however, was ignore it and do what his duty needed him to do.

So he followed the servant into the Court, head slightly bowed as they walked under the dead trees that once fed their now deceased fae magic.

Like its gates, the Summer Court was bright. There were none of those mirror-like plates on the walls, but the roofs had them in spades. Only fireflies lit up the night up there, but it still glimmered. The rest of the structure, though, was more earthly. Thin trees wound around each other to make braided, patterned walls while its branches held up lanterns and decorations. The floor leading up to and inside were limestone, small and arranged in half circular pattern. Everything seemed to exist in blinding shades of sunlight.

The doors opened with a silent breeze and Oz walked in, back straightening. The ceremonial sword hung heavy by his hips, a reminder of his present role. With a steady gait he walked through the main hall and into the Royal Audience Chamber.

“Albion,” the Queen of Summer Court welcomed. Her voice echoed in the large room, enveloping him with its shadows. “You’ve arrived at last.”

Oz walked up near the steps to the thrones and knelt, his one hand over his heart. “My Queen of Summer Court, my Queen of Winter Court.”

“Rise, Albion.”

Oz looked up and slowly stood, ignoring the shaking on his prosthetic leg. “Your Majesty.”

The Queen of the Summer Court was a short, regal, and imposing figure. She was 150 cm at most, a good deal shorter than he was, but her wings were long and layered, a show a power and position. Six wings and a rune of Duir above her chest told everyone that she was not one to be crossed. The Oak behind the thrones towered above them all, even the other tree beside it, reminding the Queen’s audience of who was in the rule here.

The Queen of the Winter Court, however, was a more subtle figure. Perhaps it was Medbh’s influence on her and her Court, but she held herself with a quiet arrogance, content in the knowledge that she and her Unseelie kind followed the image of the first Fae Queen. Her wings were huge and sweeping, rather like sheer butterfly wings that grazed the ground, and the size made up for the less impressive number. While the Summer Queen was crowned with Oak leaves and acorns, the Winter Queen didn’t adorn herself with a crown. Instead, a bright Luis rune glowed there, just above her forehead. Her neck and chest, though, was lined with deep coloured gems. The necklace was simple but extravagant.

“We have read your letters and prepared for your coming,” the Summer Queen started. “Is it true that there were four humans capable of uncapping the seals placed upon the Cauldron?”

A long time ago, the Fomorians were purportedly thrown into the Cauldron of Dagda. Some said it was right after the war, some said it was long after, but most  agreed that it happened, since the Cauldron of Dagda was covered in a huge slab of stone. Some folklore continued on by saying that Ogma was the one to place it there, as he was King Nuada’s champion. And it was there, too, that he showed his prowess as a poet, for the engraved lines he drew on the stone enchanted the magic so that they wove around it, glowing within the runes. Ogma was the inventor of Ogham, but some said that he too started the age of runic magic.

Centuries later, carvings began to fade. It was supposed to be around the 15th century when Albion and the Fae Courts replaced the great slab. But Ogma was a formidable man, and his strength was rivaled only by Lugh Lámhfhada, and thus the four seals were created in the place of one.

Oz personally thought that those four could probably stand to be a little bit smaller, since they were sort of hard to move as they were, but he was just a tiny, helpless human.

“All four have been eliminated,” Oz said. “The original seal is holding on at the moment, but it would be best if we do not take chances.”

“I have heard from my people in the far south that the Fomorians had… changed, somehow?” The Summer Queen’s frown deepened, casting a darker shadow on her already stern features. “I take it that you have already seen these changed creatures for yourself, have you not?”

Oz nodded. “I have, Your Majesty.”

“Abominations remain abominations.” The Winter Queen’s voice was quiet but firm. “Their forms changed nothing.”

The Summer Queen scoffed. “I’m sorry, dearest Elfeda, but surely you are overlooking something. Their changed forms suggested that something within the Cauldron allowed them to do so. I fear, what if one day the seal failed? What if one day the seals weren’t strong enough, or were not replaced in time, and thus endanger my people?”

The Winter Queen’s eyebrows furrowed for a second, flashing like a storm, but it smoothed out into careful apathy. Oz was glad to know that even within the fae folk, mock endearment was a thing.

“Dawdling before such monumental task will not help the matters any. Let us start creating the seals, _then_ discuss the futures. Our current task is to ensure there is a future to worry about.”

The Summer Queen looked as though she contemplated stabbing her equal before deciding against it. Oz supposed that was an improvement from _human_ European middle ages royalty. They probably actually stabbed each other. And probably missed, because none of them were quite right in the head.

“You are right,” the Summer Queen conceded at last. “Let us go. This way, Albion.”

The Summer Queen turned before gliding her way behind the throne, beyond the trees. With a flap of her wings the wall before her fell into sparkling dust before revealing a doorway. The Winter Queen followed her, and so Oz did, too, trying not to wince as he forced his leg to move. He was starting to think he was pushing it too hard, but that shouldn’t be the case. More exercise was good, after all. But then again, swelling was a problem. His current and temporary prosthesis was supposed to reduce it, but well. The body was a strange thing, and Oz would not claim he understood how such things worked.

Reining in another sigh, Oz entered the chamber.

The first thing he felt was the explosion of strong magic. It almost seemed to pulsate, alive, in here—he couldn’t see it clearly, but it pressed against his skin, curious. He had been told that this was how the purest of magic worked; aimless until given purpose, it lingered. The room itself was not extravagant like the rest of the palace: the ground beneath them was flattened earth, and the only lights were simple, undecorated lanterns.

Four 2.5 metres high slabs of stones stood in front of him, surrounded by circles. Magic focus lines. The two Queens stood by the one on the right, already in position. Anybody else would’ve felt oppressed by the combined strength of the earth’s, the Summer Queen’s, and the Winter Queen’s magic. But he was never particularly sensitive to it, and the best it did was press against his chest. Had Gil been here, she would’ve been pained from the sheer brightness.

A pen-like item hovered in front of him, held up by the Summer Queen’s magic. If he concentrated hard enough, he could see that the magic intertwined to it was not ordinary. Other channels let magic manifest before letting it disperse, but this one ensured that a continuous stream would be manifested and never dispersed. Oz could see from the way the Summer Queen’s magic was carefully placed along the sharp tip so that it would not suck her powers out.

Oz took it and sat down within the circle, knowing that the magic would pass through him as though he was nothing. His body never had magical affinity, other than his eyes’ inherited ability.

“Let’s start, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a short chapter. Some fae stuffs! The system is still similar to my first draft for Wonderlust, so at least you can get an idea of how it works though I never posted that.


	5. Chapter 4

Engraving a stone slab bigger than a common coffin with a pencil that stitched magic at the speed of a tiny glue gun was more tedious than he anticipated. Honestly though, Oz wasn’t sure why he expected any less—it wasn’t like he didn’t get bored from the numerous training for this very moment—but he supposed actually _doing_ it was a factor at play here. That, or it was the company. Back when he had to drill the movements into his head, he sat with Fraser and Gil and Tim. While nobody talked, it was at least comfortable.

This time, he had two concentrating Queens flapping near him, glowing like beacons. You couldn’t get more distracting than being the equivalent of two lighthouses.

Time disappeared as they settled to work. The two Queens molded the malleable Earth’s magic into something denser before feeding it to the pencil as Oz slowly engraved the words. The shapes were ingrained in his mind and he could feel the slip—that particular version of zoning out that tapped into a part of his subconscious.

A part of the complication was this: seals were meticulous. A certain amount of magic had to be etched into each rune, and with something as big as the four Zoa seals, he had to be careful. Moving too fast meant that the seals were weak, but too much and it broke. Oz tried not to think too hard about it, though. It was part of the things he was trained for, and overthinking it only led to trouble.

So everything faded but the bright glow of magic. His stump felt a bit uncomfortable but even that ebbed away, leaving nothing but the sight in front of him. His heartbeat thumped in tandem with the thrum, and before he knew it, he stopped.

“It is probably meal time for you, Albion.” The Summer Queen herself was now no longer a glowing pillar, but a flying fae. “It also seemed like you are almost asleep in your seat. Go to your chamber. A servant will bring you food and you shall then rest.”

Oz blinked once, twice before nodding slowly. The pencil in his hand dropped, magic no longer supporting it. His arm burned from holding up for so long. Time might not exist quite the same here, but he could feel the effects on his body. Shifting his leg, Oz held in a hiss.

“Are you able to stand, Albion?” He could laugh at the confusion in her voice. Unsurprising, coming from a race that could fly given a bit of magic. He was and always had been a strange, frail, though large creature in the eyes of one almost four hundred years old.

“Just give me a moment. I think I sat for far too long.”

Not only did his stump throb uncomfortably, but so did his healthy leg. He sat in a comfortable position, no sitting on his limbs or anything, but prolonged stillness left its mark anyway. Waiting for the stinging pinpricks to recede, Oz winced.

It took him a minute to compose himself and leave the room, the two Queen’s eyes on the back of his head. His hand traced the wall, ready to bear the brunt of the weight if such a need arose. Tired determination in his eyes, Oz made his way to his chamber.

The Albion part of the guest quarters never changed. It was out of the main Court, off in a wing, on the bottom floor of the area. Unlike the more finely decorated royal guest areas, it was more streamlined—the rooms were smaller and more numerous, the wall décor less flashy, and there were multiple exits. Albion had always been a big organisation before, consisting of at least ten families and made up of at least fifty people, but now here he was, the last remaining one. He’d been hearing talks about making a new Albion, one that more closely resembled a military organisation, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth. It _will_ happen, since they couldn’t let this die, but the idea of losing a part of Albion’s identity hurt him in ways those proposing politicians couldn’t understand. He might not be biologically related to his siblings, but they were his family.

The first door into the wing was marked with a hung name and Oz stumbled in, sighing. Well, at least it looked like they actually knew his name. The Queens—and Kings, really, though he rarely had to deal with them—often just referred to any member of Albion as Albion, and while it was quite funny to see everyone’s head turning when they called, it was just depressing when he was alone. They were gone.

The large bed was incredibly soft and fluffy when he fell onto it, bone mush. He must’ve been awake for twenty four hours by now. He couldn’t see any sunlight from here, but the lanterns outside his window were getting dim and the mystical fireflies that often bumped against the glass were gone. Oz lied still, breathing in and out.

Someone knocked. “Sir Oz?”

Oz pushed himself up. “Come in.”

A click and the door opened, revealing a servant with a tray of food. He placed it on the bedside table without as much a hush, head bowed. “Your dinner, sir. If you wish to bathe, the bath is right behind this wing.”

Oz wondered if they remembered that they told him the same thing at least ten times in the past ten years. Albion didn’t even have the luxury of changing rooms, so it wasn’t like things mysteriously moved. “Thank you. I don’t think I would, however.”

They separated the Albion bath from the fae royal guests’, and that private bath was split into two. But Oz wondered what they’d think if they see him crawl out of the baths only to put on his temporary prosthesis. They’d probably be puzzled. Only Leprechauns were able to make fine crafts, and even then, very few fae could enchant an item so well it could replace body parts.

That, or he could wave his prosthesis around and scream. That would surprise them. Oz would’ve gotten a nice smack to the head from the Commander for that, but he was unrepentant. He liked keeping them on their toes.

But alas, he wasn’t looking to break the alliance between the Courts and humans. Oz grew up grabbing worms with his bare hand, but this was probably a can of maggots.

Shifting, Oz reached forward to get the tray. The servant fae immediately took it and moved it to his bed once he saw the lack of arm. Well, at least that was nice. “Thanks.”

The fae nodded and left, closing the door with a quiet click.

Oz turned to his food. The dinner was roasted whitefish with lemon and herbs. A hearty serving of baked potato was next to it, along with several roasted vegetables. Next to it all was a cup of tea and a generous serving of chocolate mousse and cream, a fae favourite. Typical of them to give so much in one plate. They always liked to have more food than they needed. Not like humans don’t, but for them it was a tradition. Not doing so was simply almost a shame—it was almost taboo.

Taking a deep breath, Oz began eating his dinner. With the events of today now behind him, his body reminded him that it wanted rest. But it wasn’t like him to skip any meal, and he wasn’t about to accidentally insult the faes by eating so little. They were used to leftovers, especially from human guests, but he’d only eaten half the fish so far and that would be a subtle jab at the house owner, in this case the Summer Queen. So Oz shoved down more of his dinner and sighed at his tea, glad that all those food were now washed away.

The mousse stared at him, and Oz stared back.

Nope. Living with Arago for several weeks showed just how deep his obsession with chocolate candy bars were, and he was very ready to hate the thing. Then the fact that Rio’s parents sent them small boxes of food and the ones for Arago were cookies with chocolate filling. _Then_ there was Charlie being a softie and buying him _more chocolate_.

Oz had not touched a dessert for a week out of simple exhaustion. The sight of all those chocolate left a bit of an empty hole in his heart, devoid of feelings. He had enough of sweets.

Twenty eight chocolate candy bars a week was enough.

Putting the tray back to the bedside table, Oz stretched and lied back down. He had to change his clothes and take off his prosthesis to put on the elastic bandage before bed. He also had to rebandage his arm, which had been in the same wrappings for the entire day. Those were already a chore on a good day, but it was almost daunting when he was exhausted.

But he did it anyway. Crawling off the bed, Oz dragged himself to change into night clothes they provided before getting back to bed. The prosthesis rested against the nightstand and with slow, sleepy movements he bandaged his stumps. His bags, placed on the foot of the bed by the fae servants, now lied open. He would’ve closed it back again if he wasn’t so damn sleepy.

He fell asleep the second he finished tucking the bandages.

* * *

It was such a strange feeling, gazing upon these hills again.

Nuada Airgetlám, the first King of Ireland, stood on the land that once was his. Everything felt off, somehow—he smelled of rich earth, the winds blew oddly, and there was an unfamiliar hum of things far off in the distance, too faint for him to discern. This was no longer his Ireland, nor was this the land he left to the next Kings in line. This land was still Ireland, but he could hear no song from the Earth.

Still, he closed his eyes.

The thrum of magic ran deep in his veins, and with concentration he could See. See the magic Earth gave, see things not even his eyes could. The magic of the Earth had dimmed during his probable sleep, but off in the far distance, he could see it. He could see two bright flares—one a pillar of light, vigilant and unmoving, and one of a star-like object.

The pillar was undoubtedly of his sword. Though he had died, his weapon had not. It lingered, beckoning to whoever could conquer its primal instinct and control it.

With a new resolution in his heart, Nuada set off for the land now called Scotland.

* * *

 Oz woke up with the inability to move.

It had been—he couldn’t remember anymore, to be honest—maybe two weeks since he last went there and worked on the stone seals. He finished the first one, the one that would replace Tharmas, and they had just started on the second one yesterday. He’d gone to bed feeling just a bit more lethargic than usual, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He ate his dinner and all, this time actually eating his dessert.

But now he woke up and well.

His leg wouldn’t cooperate and his chest stung. That couldn’t have been from his legs, could it? He took care of it, despite pushing himself. There were never any blister or wounds on it and Oz coughed. And shit, _that_ hurt.

He didn’t know how long he laid there, frozen and unmoving, when the door opened with a quiet click and a tall woman walked in.

The woman was a fae. Her pointed ears said that. But she was tall—almost taller than him, maybe—and she was swimming in robes that dragged on the floor, and that wasn’t normal. The current fashion for the Court circle was flower dresses, and like all nobility, they scampered to get the latest of the line. Even commoner female fae wouldn’t wear those, which looked more like an extremely long, loose tunic. Male fae at times wore tunics with buckled belt, but even then they were thigh-length.

That, and Oz felt like there was something different about her aura.

But coherency was out of his grasp right now. Resigning to the pain, Oz let his head plop back down on the pillow.

“You’ve overexerted yourself, young child,” the woman said as she sat down beside him. Oz noted the little pouch on her hand now. “Especially when magic is the source of your pain. I can sense that it hadn’t been healing properly. Understandable, as it might be foreign for human healers, but it must put you in pain.”

There was a moment of silence as the woman opened her pouch. He could hear a crinkling of paper and then some sort of wet clump was pressed against his lips. It felt and smelled like crushed herbs, and Oz closed his mouth shut.

“It is safe, child.” She sounded amused, like his attempt to not eat things from strangers and possibly die from it was funny. “I am the royal healer. My name is Nairne, the renowned herbalist.”

Nairne. He heard the name before. She _was_ supposed to be serving in the Court, but as far as he heard, she used to serve in the Winter Court. Did she follow the Winter Queen here? Since when did the Winter Queen get hurt or sick anyway? She looked fine to him. But then again, she could be hiding something. There was no rest when you’re a Queen.

But well. Oz never _knew_ who Nairne was. This could be a fake and he’d never know, because he never met Nairne himself.

But a cough wrecked his body—his mouth tasted like iron and he’s so screwed—and she pushed the ball in, her other hand brushing back his hair. The clump of herbs dissolved into bits of leaves in his mouth and Oz grimaced as he swallowed them by instinct. The taste of blood and plants were kind of gross, but he had no water to wash it away. Resigned, Oz lied back down and tried to breathe without triggering another cough.

Someone opened the door and within moments, a glass was pressed against his lips.

“Here.”

Oz pushed himself up and _water_. The taste of iron lingered, but it wasn’t pooling anymore. And as disgusting as it felt, Oz couldn’t do anything about that.

“Thanks,” he breathed out.  Nairne smiled, and Oz felt like he’d seen that kind of smile before—resigned, sad and yet still tinged with determination. It reminded him of Ewan’s last smile before he stumbled off the platform and into the Cauldron.

Which he was now closing. Oz felt like a disgusting filth.

“You have an amazing feat of luck, but they discounted your own strength,” Nairne said, voice soothing as a marigold balm. “You continued though it pains you. It’s not an easy choice, is it? Alas, there’s little I can do but help you heal.”

She stood up, gathering her robes. Her wings twitched, and Oz swore he saw her glow.

“Wait,” he called out. “But why?”

“It’s my duty to heal those wounded by wars,” she answered, and she left. Her footsteps were silent and the door made no sound, and the only thing that broke the stillness was Oz’s own sigh, resigned. This was the nature of working with creatures centuries older than you, he supposed. Everybody had secrets they expected others to know without ever telling you the context or the problem.

But whatever. He still had to go and do his work. Pushing himself up, Oz noted that the pain was gone and that moving wasn’t too bad anymore. Whatever Nairne gave him was potent. Grabbing his prosthesis, he went on to take his bandages off and put it on. He should be getting a permanent one in a few month’s time. And then maybe the one for his arm.

Looks like he wasn’t going to get any rest anytime soon.

Grabbing his uniform—washed by the servants, it seemed—Oz stumbled back outside and into the baths.

The halls were empty when he walked through them, and through the windows Oz could see that it was still sun up. If he had to estimate, it was probably afternoon. Two or three pm. Definitely still bed time for faes who were up all night partying, or the ones who just turned in late. Another thing about fae was that they slept like kids, too. Eight wasn’t cutting it. The common time was ten, though they slept less during winter. Some fae and fae-like creatures stayed up during the day just fine though. It was just that most normal fae, the ones who grouped and lived in villages, still followed their ancestor’s sleep patterns. They’d been told to hide away from humans, and so they adapted to being awake when humans weren’t.

Well, at least empty baths meant that there wouldn’t be something like his clothes disappearing.

The human section of the bathing area was a nice one. The room was larger than the fae’s, to accommodate the difference in size, and they had little stalls for quick showering. The water was crisp and cold, though the room itself was rather warmer than the outside air. They tend to heat the water up early in the morning, when the fae retired and went to baths to relax. It seemed to be a royalty thing, though, since most fae would just head to the nearest river, autumn or not.

“Sir O—y-your leg.” The servant paused mid-sentence, staring at Oz’s prosthesis with wide eyes. His eyebrows were furrowed and Oz feared he was going into shock. “Your leg—“

Oh, right. He forgot that the night clothes they gave him went only a few centimetres below his knee. Quite a big chunk of his mechanical leg showed, all grey and dull plastic. Oz chuckled.

“Isn’t it nice? I got myself a new one,” he said, and the servant looked pale when he ran away.

Did he mention how satisfying it was to tease faes? Because it was.

Almost whistling to himself, Oz entered the bath and readied himself for the long day ahead of him. 

* * *

 The earth’s song was faint to his senses.

It felt unnerving and sad, the softness of the tune. It used to be that Ireland was happy and proud, angry and passionate. She was not a land of calmness and meekness. How long had it been since she last cried in joy, proud of the people who walked and lived on her bounty? Nuada gazed at the earth under his feet and frowned. These grasses did not stand in joy. Instead, they wilted in submission.

And so he walked.

The sun was reaching its last stretch of time when he arrived on the shores. The water was not gentle, but it held but a minute part of its former fierceness. Before, it was a test of strength. Now it felt like even time had dulled it, lulling it in tiredness.

What happened to his Ireland?

But a heavy pair of footsteps interrupted his reverie as he looked up. And his face lit up, his frown lifted, when he found that the owner of such bellowing presence was his own dear friend, Ogma.

“My king Nuada,” his friend said, voice deep as the earth itself, and Nuada stepped forward to embrace him. The champion looked different, he felt, but his departure had been early and perhaps it was then that his friend changed. He hoped it had been of age, and not of disappointment.

“My dear friend Ogma,” he replied in kind. “What has brought you here?”

Ogma looked back behind him, as though seeing someone he had left behind. “I feel it is the earth itself, my king.”

“It is the same as I, then.”

“And where do you plan to go now?” Ogma looked at him. “What brings you to this shore?”

Nuada looked off to the distance, to the horizon of the sea. Though the water stretched far, he could still almost see it, the faint presence of the treasures of Ireland. They were like pearls as a beacon—unseen unless the light was right.

“The Spear of Victory and the Sword of Light lie beyond these shores, good Ogma. And something draws me to them. Who moved these to such places? What happened after my death?”

“Lugh Lámhfhada became king,” Ogma replied. “He killed Balor of the Evil Eye and became the king of Tuatha Dé Danann.”

Nuada could not help but nod in approval. Lugh Lámhfhada was a good man indeed, with his impressive arrays of skill and his courage. He was nothing but extraordinary during the second battle of Mag Tuired. To hear that he killed Balor of the Evil Eye as well brought him nothing but Nuada’s good will.

“But if you are to cross the sea, my king,” Ogma then said. “Will you give me permission to join you?”

Nuada only smiled as he turned back to the sea. Slowly, as the sun set and cast a golden glow that glimmered on the ever-moving surface, the wave rose and rolled, moving ever closer to them. The white foam bubbled as the wave grew larger and larger, and Nuada smiled.

“Of course, my good friend. I would never turn away such good company.”


	6. Chapter 5

Two weeks. If Oz was honest, he was starting to feel dead inside.

It had been a nice three weeks of engraving stones, going to bed and wake up with existential dread. Oz packed a month’s worth of medications—the prescription for _that_ nearly had the chemist drop the box of meds and she nearly said no, but Charlie explained that he’d be away from a source of medication and she gave in—but he was pretty sure he’d need something stronger to fend of this feeling of hopelessness. It wasn’t from the idea that the four Zoa seals would fail, no. It was just… there.

Nairne appeared from time to time, bringing him more of those clumps of herbs. Sometimes it was a cup of tea, infused with things he couldn’t identify. It seemed to be potent, since he hadn’t even felt the slow burn he had every other week or so, and he was just glad it wasn’t poison. She never stayed long, though, and the conversations were just her talking to herself, mouthing monologues as if Oz was nothing but a mirror.

“It is time for a meal,” the Summer Queen said as she once again stopped, glow receding. Oz winced as his bone creaked and joints popped. The Winter Queen, too, followed her example and landed back on the ground. If the flickers on their auras weren’t signs of fatigue, Oz didn’t know what they were. “But I am pleased to see that we have already well into our second seal. The first one was done faster than I had anticipated. You did well, Albion.”

Oz cracked a tired smile. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“The past few months had been gnawing at my thoughts,” the Summer Queen continued. “No. The past century. Things had been happening and I did my best to ignore them, all the while reinforcing my own guards for my people, but it appeared that not even the best defence could last. I had paid it no heed until a few months ago.”

“You had always been the type to ignore problems until it involved you, Aleth.” The Winter Queen’s voice was sharp. “You never learned.”

“I would not put my people in danger if it could be avoided,” the Summer Queen responded, expression hard. “That had always been my promise.”

Meanwhile Oz sat on the ground, trying not to be too obvious about rubbing his headache away. He probably should try to stand. Walking was a bit hard lately, since he hadn’t been exercising his legs enough and prolonged sitting seemed to make his muscles mush again, and he probably should confess about his ailment at some point. Not even Nairne seemed to think something was wrong. Then again, to know that, she’d have to felt or seen his legs. And Oz would rather not have someone grab his legs to feel them.

“And whoever claimed the Spear of Victory must be incredibly strong, as it was uncontrollable unless one brought milk of poppy. It was clear that he did not. Not only that, but the Spear of Victory was previously in your territory, was it not?”

“It was,” the Winter Queen agreed. “But I myself did not know how they stole it. When we arrived, the pot had a broken piece and its Seed was missing.”

“Apologies for the interruption, my Queens,” Oz said, eyebrows furrowing. “But does nobody know how and when the Brionac was taken from its resting place?”

The two Queens shook their heads. “It was hidden in the land the Milesians took,” the Winter Queen said. “Of course, the magic surrounding the Spear of Victory was strong, and for a long time it was unseen to human eyes. Unless they inherited eyes like yours, Sir Oz, they would only see a thick, labyrinthine forest.”

And it wasn’t like Oz could deduct who that was today. Patchman was notorious and elusive _because_ he took others’ body parts, creating a Frankenstein monster with the human body. Oz was pretty sure that the Brionac that decayed his body was keeping it alive, too, since there was just no way such a bad transplant job could hold up. Oz had seen better bad plastic surgeries.

But the most terrifying thing was the fact that whoever Patchman was, he could implant his mind into others.

“But who on earth could transfer his own mind into bodies not his?” Oz asked. He pushed himself up, leaning on the stone when his legs wobbled. “That certainly can’t be normal.”

There were a lot of things Oz didn’t know, like what the heck was the Orc originally and how people came to have resistance to the effects of Brionac and Claíomh Solais, but he knew that Patchman couldn’t be something ordinary. Of all the mysteries there were out there, this was the most important. If they didn’t know what he was, there was no chance of fighting him.

Oz couldn’t even be sure he died. To be honest, he wouldn’t be surprised if he managed to live somehow. He was more resilient than a cockroach and would probably survive a nuclear apocalypse. At the very least he couldn’t crawl out of the Cauldron of Dagda easily. Better yet, Oz hoped he was dead.

“He could do _what?”_ The Queen’s voices rose in tandem as they looked at him in alarm.

“After Arago destroyed his body, we thought the battle was over,” Oz said. “Then he came back, revealing to us that he had now inhabited Arago’s brother, Ewan’s, body. Ewan somehow managed to overcome him for a moment, though, and flung himself into the Cauldron in hopes that it would at least be a prison to him.”

Falling over a hundred floors was usually a death sentence, but both Patchman and Ewan always proved to be alive in the end anyway.

Before either Queen could react, though, a servant barged in. The Summer Queen was ready to unleash her fury but the words stopped her.

“M-my Queen! A very strong individual had breached into the Plains of Assembly!”

“ _The Plains of Assembly_?” The Winter Queen’s voice was harsh as she stomped out, wings flaring. Her Luis rune turned into fire before flickering back. “I am sorry, but this has to wait. I must check on the old land. Farewell.”

And with that she left. There was a ring of fire before she disappeared, teleported back to her Court. The servant flew out, having to make his way back. Well, Oz supposed that had been how she arrived so fast. The Summer Queen was silent for a few moments before sighing, shaking her head.

“Well, it seemed like the seals will have to be put on hold,” she said. “Go rest, Albion. I have a feeling this might take a while. The Plains of Assembly are too well hidden and she would have to walk her way there.”

But the servant who had flown out suddenly came back, a new shade of panic over his face. “I-I forgot to tell you one important thing, Your Majesty.”

The Summer Queen looked ready to strike him down for not kneeling, but she schooled herself. “What is it?”

“The individual who came back—it seemed to be the god Lugh Lámhfhada.”

The Summer Queen, too, left with a flurry of curses and water. Within seconds, only a damp circle on the floor showed that she was there. The servant turned around only to jerk back and bow at Oz before flying back out, wings humming.

He probably bowed to the wrong person. Should’ve done that to the Queen instead. But well, that was that. Things just happened.

Lugh Lámhfhada, huh?

They were so, so screwed. Laughing, Oz wandered back to his room. If there was anything he could do, it was go back. He needed to talk to Arago and the others so that they would be ready should the need to fight arose. Of course, he couldn’t let the girls fight yet. And really, if Lugh was messed up from his revival, what better fighter was there other than his own weapon? It would be ironic.

He should talk to his therapist. This entire thing was turning him into a sociopath.

* * *

 

“Are we still going, Coco?” Rio asked, peering into the other’s room. Coco looked up from her book and hurried to put it aside, jumping away from her work table.

“Y-yes! Sorry, I was just reviewing.”

It had been three harsh weeks of intensive studying, and everyone was tired. They only got a day off every week, though the training stopped once they showed signs of exhaustion. At least for Coco anyway. There was no use trying to memorise with a tired mind, apparently, while Rio had to continue meditation.

So whenever they had breaks, they hit the nearby village or forest.

The village of Gargunnock was barely ten minutes away from the Albion house and was a small thing all right. There were several hotels and a few stores, but it was a sleepy village compared to the bustle of the capital of the United Kingdom. It was a welcome change, though, as the peace and quiet lulled her mind into something more mindful, more attentive. Living as a police officer in the busiest city in England was an adrenaline rush, but in return it was such a kaleidoscope of actions that she had to choose what to see.

But here, everything was tranquil.

The same could be said of the forest. They planned to go there today, after the Leprechaun mentioned something about a certain kind of herbs being useful in a number of situations. Coco’s intensive lessons were on Beith-luis-nin and its associated attacks, but the Leprechaun seemed to have a hobby in herbal medicine and he passed on the knowledge almost on a whim.

“Okay, let’s go,” Coco said, shifting the little bag she put on.

The forest behind the Albion house was almost attached to the backyard itself. There was an open space around thirty metres long, maybe for whatever activities they had, but then it was just trees and trees, with some undergrowth. Rio herself never really got the chance to sightsee and take a look at what was truly inside, so this would be her first.

“What exactly are we looking for anyway?” Rio asked as they walked out of the house. The morning was nice and demure, a sweet departure from the fading summer. Coco pulled out a realistic illustration of the plant, and Rio blinked. “That looks almost like a photo. Are you sure we can’t find it in the village?”

“This was supposed to be only found rarely around this area, and I was hoping that included this forest. Oz did say that there were a lot of plants here cultivated for their healing properties. They used to use herbal medicine for their source of healing, and Oz even said that they still had three jars of ointments each from various plants.”

“That might explain that cupboard in the halls,” Rio muttered. It was filled with jars and none of them had any labels. The Albion must have used them often enough they could differentiate them based on smell or looks.

“He didn’t get to tell me much else, though.” Coco folded the picture back and put it in her pocket. “Though then again, he looked exhausted. He might have been too tired to explain more.”

Rio nodded and they fell silent as they walked into the forest. The undergrowth weren’t thick, but some paths looked more well-trod and so they followed it. Rio wondered what made them walk this path more often—Oz always seemed to have a purpose to everything he did, and she couldn’t help but imagine that the rest of this mysterious Albion was the same as him. Was this a path to a certain spot in the forest? If yes, what was there?

But she supposed she’d only find out once they followed it through to the very end.

“Oz grew up here, but somehow I can’t picture him as a child,” Coco said as she pushed a branch away from their path.

Rio hummed in agreement. At first Oz had been, well, sort of childish in her eyes. Not the bad kind—he just acted so young, with his spinning in chair thing, that Rio couldn’t help but see a carefree late teen. He was a bit more serious when Seth came into the room, but that was all.

But then the almost apocalypse happened and Oz showed his true colours. Rio had never seen him fight, but the set in his jaw and the calculation in his movements, the pessimism in his voice said so much it shattered her previous impression of him. Then it ended and Arago and he came back and the image grew more and more depressing until Rio wondered just how often Oz pretended to be that childish person. The three of them had barely gleaned the surface of his history, and yet it felt so bleak she wondered if they truly wanted to know the depth of it.

“I bet he’s very attuned to nature, though,” Rio said. “He looked very enthused about coming back, and the horses seemed to love him. Not to mention those deer that sometimes came by didn’t even move when he was near them.”

“He is, I think,” Coco said. The trees grew thicker as they walked deeper into the forest, and Rio was glad that she put on her jeans and boots before walking here. Coco herself had a jacket on, protecting her arms from the jutting branches. “He’s very attentive, so I think he picks up little signs and that helped him with reading the atmosphere. It really does help when you’re dealing with animals.”

Right. Coco was sort of known for being the only one who wanted to handle the most troublesome dog in the force, and she probably knew quite a bit about those kinds of things. Rio doubted she even had the patience for that, so she held nothing but respect. It took a special kind of person to listen so well.

“Do you think it’s around here?” Rio said, gesturing at their surroundings. The thought had only hit her head now—where exactly would they search? “Are we planning to only search in some kind of little areas?”

“Uh,” Coco said, pulling the paper out. Rio looked over her shoulder to read the neat, tiny notes on the back of it. “It’s supposed to only grow near certain trees, and I’m looking for them right now. I’m not sure where I can find it in this place, but…”

“Don’t worry, we’ve got all day,” Rio said, patting Coco’s shoulder. “And we probably wouldn't get too lost. As long as we stick to the path, we’re fine.”

Rio trusted Coco enough to not do something as stupid as that. Coco wasn’t impulsive, and the few times she was, it was never over the top. Arago, on the other hand…

She sighed. Speaking of Arago, she was starting to miss the dork.

Arago seemed to have taken Oz’s words to heart and threw himself into the life. He’d been going around the country, from what Rio gathered, and apparently he’d been using his powers—both literally and figuratively—to herd mystical creatures away from humans. At first he’d gone with the Royal Air Force, riding their helicopter, but it wasn’t long before he managed to get himself a motorcycle and did his own thing. Charlie forced him to  have a functioning cell phone at all times and to report every day, and while that was more than what they’d usually get, it was still the bare minimum. They knew next to nothing about what he did.

And of course like everything he did, he just had to go on for weeks. He came home only every five days or so, picked up by the Royal Air Force, and he’d be gone by the next day. It was obsessive, excessive, and Rio didn’t know how Ewan could do it.

Sometimes she’d stare at the empty kitchen chairs and wished she talked to Ewan about how he dealt with Arago’s absence more. The contents of her letters to him felt so petty now, pages of pages about her and her intense school and venting. Ewan always sent the nicest replies to her, occasionally replying with little snippets of how Arago was doing. The content could almost be misconstrued as ranting, but the wordings were unmistakably fond. Rio just wanted to know how he could still write those nice letters even after Arago left.

They were twins, after all. Arago might be more impulsive, but they were similar at heart. Rio wouldn’t be surprised if she found out that Ewan dealt with his problems similar to Arago. His methods might differ, but its core could be the same.

And, well. These thoughts were starting to make her reconsider just which parts of Ewan she fell in love with.

“Rio?” Coco waved a hand in front of her face, eyebrows furrowed. “Oh, good, you’re back. You were spacing out back there.”

“S-sorry. Was just thinking.”

Coco’s expression turned into a kind one, and she smiled. “Want to talk about it?”

Should she? It _was_ about Ewan after all, and it… was sort of awkward, honestly. Coco liked Arago. She liked Ewan. In a way, they were sort of after the same ‘goal’—she was never using that to refer to the twins ever again—but Rio was also feeling like they were starting to become more than just two people chasing similar things. The friendship she had with Coco felt like it was starting to become more genuine, and Rio wasn’t sure if she wanted to bring the twins up. It just felt like an unpleasant subtle undertone, the entire _we liked the same pair of brothers_ thing.

“I’m fine,” Rio said instead.

“Is it about Arago?” Coco asked, tilting her head. Rio was almost about to shake her head before changing her mind, settling with a shrug. Arago was sort of relevant. “You can talk to me about it, you know.”

“I know,” Rio said. She laid her arm around Coco’s waist and pushed her forward. “Come on, we’ll talk as we walk.”

Then again, they _were_ friends. Rio just hoped that they wouldn’t let the twins become the basis for their true friendship. Because Rio liked Coco no problem, and she wasn’t shallow enough to be the sort of girl who’d befriend others just because of a crush.

The rustles of leaves and the buzz of insects became the background noise to their conversation. It was calming, if she didn’t think too much about the latter. She was getting used to the numerous bugs that came naturally with living near a forest, but she wasn’t too keen on knowing what those bugs were in detail.

“I was just thinking about… Ewan, I suppose. And Arago.” Rio paused as she ducked under a thick branch. “I was thinking about how Ewan dealt with Arago and all his running away thing. At first I was just thinking about how he dealt _with_ Arago, but then I can’t help but notice that I never knew how he did or felt about it myself, even though we kept in close touch after Arago left.”

And now she couldn’t help but wonder just whether she knew only a projection Ewan wrote so that she wouldn’t worry too much. It wouldn’t be too out of place, if she was honest to herself. Letters took time to compose, and while she often only thought about how to word things in English instead of Japanese, Ewan probably was careful when he took his time writing his replies. From what she heard of him from his division—the MIT, Murder Investigation Team—he was sociable and determined, outgoing, but the older detectives said certain things that now wouldn’t leave her mind.

Detective Alima Sa’ad, for one, said that he was the kind of person who would fake emotions just so that the rest of the team wouldn’t be too dragged down by the weight of their cases. And well, nobody really knew much about Ewan either. Larry was his best friend and rival, and even then nobody heard about Arago.

Arago was always important in Ewan’s life, that much she knew. And if he could hide things like that from people he met with every day, Rio was starting to doubt the purity of the letters’ contents.

“I’m just now wondering if I… knew him at all. Like I know that he’s smart and good and kind, but was he as okay as he made himself out to be in the letters? I was too young to care that I was deluding myself. And now I’m feeling it.”

And it was a novel kind of pain now. Feeling the persistent ache of Ewan’s death was something she was working on, but this one was more like regret. She just wanted to know him now.

Arms pulled her into a hug and Rio hugged Coco back, too, fists tightening around handfuls of dark fabric. The birds called on one another and the buzz of insects was a continuous noise, it felt calm and comforting. Rio pulled away with a small smile on her face.

“I don’t know how much it must have hurt,” Coco said, “but I’d like to help if I can.”

“I don’t know what anyone can do about it either,” Rio said, shrugging in resignation. But her lips quirked into a small smile. “But maybe we can, I don’t know, talk to Arago? I think he needs us more.”

Neither of them knew what happened even to this day. Oz and Joe were the only ones to witness what happened on the top of the gigantic tower, and neither Oz nor Arago would divulge. The only thing they knew was that Ewan sacrificed himself again. The thought of that sent a sharp pain through her chest, but then she could only imagine how _Arago_ must have felt.

He worked so hard just to get Ewan back, only for things to turn out so badly Ewan had to sacrifice himself again.

“But for now, let’s get back to searching for that plant, shall we? I mean, we can’t really talk to Arago about it right now. We’ll just trap him later, once he gets back.”

Coco nodded and rubbed her shoulder for a second before turning back to the track. And with a small smile and a new kind of peace in her mind, she followed her deeper into the forest.

It was another ten minutes of walking before Rio could spy a brighter patch of area behind the trees in their path. Coco moved faster, hopping over the undergrowth before they could entangle on her legs. And soon, they broke out of the shaded area of the forest.

The little clearing was a bright, little thing—sunlight streamed through sparse leaves, casting a gold overlay on the area. Tiny wild flowers peeked through the undergrowth, twinkling white. The trees around were old—they stuck out with cracked, withering barks and dissimilarity from its surrounding. They must have been planted a long time ago.

“Ah!” Coco said, approaching one of the trees. Rio followed close, circling the tree while Coco inspected the other side. Only rustles and crackling of dried leaves filled in the next few moments as the two of them searched. Each movement was slow, careful of the trapping vines. But it wasn’t long before Coco made a noise of triumph and stood up, holding up a good bunch of a plant. Rio grinned.

“That was far easier than I thought.”

“Mhm,” Coco said. Rio hopped over the plants crowding the base of the old tree to get to her side. “I wonder if this path is well used because of this plant.”

“Well,” Rio said, looking at the tree again. It might have been the clear, stark shadows, but it looked almost… sad. Rio shook her head. Making up personifications of inanimate objects wasn’t her style. Not to mention it made staring at the tree for too long a bit creepy. It reminded her of those cheesy but still terrifying horror movies her old Japanese friends used to watch. She suspected her high school friends only watched it only to have a reason to cling or to get clung on. “I mean, I can see that happening.”

Coco made a noise of acknowledgement. “Do you want to go back?”

Rio looked at the part of the forest they hadn’t explored yet. The path they took didn’t end in the clearing, it looked like, and the little trail continued deeper into the forest. She had no idea where they were already, as neither of them brought maps—which would prove to be pointless here. The Albion house wasn’t exactly in the map, and apparently any mails went to a PO box. Charlie collected the mail every other week. But he’d been kind and went to get it almost every day lately, after knowing that she was anticipating packages from her parents.

“ _Caring parents is a rare sight for me, kid,_ ” he said when she sheepishly said that he could continue on his normal weekly pick up instead. “ _I loved them Albion kids like they’re my own, but all their parents died before they were eleven. Most died before they were five. Cherish yours while they still could tell you they love you through whatever they send.”_

“The sun is getting higher and higher,” Rio said at last. “I think we’re better off walking back. We did go in quite late. Maybe next time, if we went inside earlier.”

Coco nodded. “True. Let’s go then.”

The walk back felt faster than when they went in. It felt lighter, too, now that they already got what they came here for. Conversations filled the previous silence as they walked, adding to the loud songs of the birds. Rio frankly was never the type to be hyped about forest walks, but she had to admit, there was a kind of peaceful but lively cheer to it.

“Excuse me?” A soft voice said, almost a whisper. Rio and Coco snapped their heads to look at the owner of the voice.

A tall, fair skinned woman stood behind a tree, hesitancy written on her face. She wore a rather long, cream dress, the edges of it catching on the undergrowth. Her hair was a deep shade of brown and her eyes soft amber, tinted with a kind of gentle shade of yellow. Under the midday light, her flowing long hair shone as though she wore a crown of light. Rio smiled and turned to face her.

“Yes?” she asked. Coco’s hand grabbed the back of her shirt, lightly pulling at it. But it wasn’t the _I don’t like this_ kind, and so she didn’t turn to her.

“I... I am Nairne, and... and I need assistance. I needed that herb you have... It’s for my brother. I need the herb to save my brother. Would you mind telling me where...?”

Coco stepped forward with the herb in her extended hands. “Oh, don’t worry, you can have this. We don’t need it in particular—I just wanted to see if we can find it around here. You can have it if you really need it.”

Nairne’s eyes widened as she brought her hands to her chest. The long sleeves of her dress pooled around her elbows, exposing the pale skin of her arms. “R-really?”

“Of course. I hope your brother gets better soon!”

And with that Coco stepped closer and gave the plants to Nairne, who accepted it with almost confused expression. Rio swallowed back a giggle at her surprise. It was both cute and sad, seeing her so surprised—she must not have too many people acting kind to her. Rio hoped they’d get to see her around again.

“We’re heading back home, actually,” Rio said. “Do you want to come over for a cup of tea?”

Nairne brushed back a lock away from her face before shaking her head. “I... I’m sorry. You’re too kind. But I already have to go back.”

“Then you can always visit the Albion house whenever you have the time,” Coco said. She then took steps back until she stood beside Rio again, a smile bright on her lips. Rio nodded in agreement.

“Thank you very much,” Nairne whispered. “I’m in your debt... If you ever need help, you can always find me in the forest.”

Coco shook her head. “It’s not a problem! Your brother needs it far more than we do. Don’t worry about it. Have a nice day and be careful on the way back!”

Nairne nodded before retreating back into the forest, giving them a shy wave before disappearing behind the trees. Rio wondered how she didn’t get her dress tangled on the plants, considering that Coco’s less tight jacket kept snagging on some stray branches. She must live around here. Had it been one, two year ago, Rio would’ve laughed at the idea. She knew how to differentiate things from fairy tales and reality—and really, someone looking so pretty despite all the hard work that must’ve gone into maintaining that level of autonomous life? Unlikely. But now Rio knows that things like fae existed and while Rio wasn’t going to call Nairne not-human without confirmation, it seemed likely that she was. Her skin was pale—paler than Arago’s—and there was just something about her air that didn’t feel like a normal human to her.

But human or not, she was still nice, and that was how Rio will judge her.

“I wonder where she lives,” Coco said as they walked back home. Rio could already see the end of the trees far off in the distance. “I mean, she looks like she lives in here.”

“Maybe we can ask Oz once he gets back,” Rio said, shrugging. “Maybe Oz will know.”

“Ah, true.” And soon the conversation turned into one about lunch as they walked the last stretch of the path.

The grassy field was a bright shade of blinding green when they left the relatively shaded forest. Rio raised a hand in front of her eyes as they jogged back into the Albion house, laughing.

The house soon appeared within view, and their run slowed into lazy steps, thudding in sync with their breaths. Rio grinned as the scent of food wafted from the kitchen, somehow reaching their noses despite being so far out. Maria was a real good cook, they knew as much.

Though Oz was gone, Maria and Charlie still stuck around. Maria still cooked for them-- a welcome thing when they had lessons, which usually stretched into dinner time-- and Charlie was always doing his thing and at the same time making sure that they were doing fine. Rio was rather touched by his concern, to be honest. She always imagined that it was going to be something like, well, a job. They have problems, they file reports.

But Charlie was somehow around when they contemplated on whether they should tell him, and he was quick, prompt but emotionally invested in their problems. Rio herself didn’t have any trouble with her meditation teacher, but it was so nice to have him so understanding and supportive whenever they had minor issues.

Maria, on the other hand, looked a bit sterner. She seemed to have some kind of flame in her eyes, one that showed determination though she looked well into her fifties, and she never did things in halves. Even the task of making breakfast was a big thing for her-- Rio caught her at five in the morning chopping things to put in their omelette.

It was probably excessive, considering that they ate in a hurry before they rushed out of the house for their lessons, but Maria never lessened her food quality. And then there was morning snack. Then lunch. Lunches were always a big affair, for some reason, and she always made sure that fruits would accompany their meals.

Dinner was the biggest feast of the day yet. Rio and Coco would drag themselves into the dining room only to be greeted with hearty servings of mashed potatoes or pasta or just about anything by now-- and all of them would be actually garnished. They'd always have some kind of light desserts, and honestly Rio was convinced that the Albion somehow managed to rope in a chef into becoming a cook for them. She knew pretty much every kind of recipe. When they told her that she didn't have to put so much effort into dinners they'd have to eat half asleep, Maria laughed.

_"If I needed my charges to be awake when they eat my food, I would never have to cook. I lost count of how often they almost fall asleep with their face in their plates._ ” She smiled, eyes lost in far off memories. “ _I cook to make sure that you all get proper meals and nutrients, and that is all I care about. So long as you enjoy it, then I'm good. As long as you're not hungry, then I'm happy."_

Rio was starting to understand why Oz said that Albion wasn't just an organisation. It was a family. And by the way the two non-Albions acted, they all loved each other.

Coco sighed in happiness and Rio grinned as they got closer to the scent, but then they stopped on their tracks.

Charlie and Oz were next to the stables a bit further off, the former helping the latter get off the horse. Rio couldn’t see their faces or mouths well from this distance, but she could see that Oz wasn’t in good shape or in a good mood. The horse nuzzled his owner but Oz only rubbed it, eyes still on Charlie.

Exchanging a shrug with Coco, they headed for the stables.

“—is Arago?” Oz’s voice held no trace of the light, patient but serious tone it used to have. “I need him back, _now_.”

“He’s been out and about for the past few days,” Charlie answered, taking the saddle off the horse. Oz’s frown made Rio look away. It reminded her of his expression during the near-apocalypse—grim and almost resigned, but too hard to completely break. “The last time the military dropped him off was last night, and they haven’t heard from him since.”

“Get him back, now. Didn’t we place a chip on him? Track him. I need him now. Do you have my phone? I’m calling the military.”

Rio’s eyes widened. What happened?

Charlie shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t. I’ll get it for you though. But you need to get back in and sit down. You’re shaking like a leaf about to fall.”

Oz didn’t say a word as he leaned on the man as they walked back. Rio followed five steps behind them, looking at Coco from the corner of her eyes. She looked a bit wide-eyed, too, and glanced at Rio every few seconds or so, and Rio leaned down.

“I hope Arago’s not in trouble.”

“Y-yeah. This sounds bad. Really bad.”

Oz wasn’t really a violent person, as far as she knew. He got angry quite a few times, yes, but he never did anything. So at the very least, they knew that he wouldn’t hurt Arago. Rio didn’t worry too much on that front.

But what happened that was so dire that he was going to call the military? It must have been big. Rio had no idea how much power Oz had, other than ‘ _enough for soldiers to call him Sir’_ , but even if he had a lot of power he must have had a good reason.

But Oz was silent for the rest of the walk, and it was only until the door closed and they sat down in the dining room did he talk.

“Charlie, please get me my phone. I need to call them now. Rio, Coco, sit down.”

Rio pulled the chair next to Coco’s, trying to hide the fact that she felt like she did something wrong and now her principal wanted a talk with her parents. Japan could be ruthless and react far worse than MET. She feared a bad grade more than she feared getting fired at times. At their apprehension, Oz sighed and let his shoulder slump.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to scare you two. You’re not in trouble, and nor is Arago. But there’s something extremely worrisome that might get worse very fast and I need Arago to be back as soon as possible. You two can relax for a bit.”

Charlie came back with the phone and handed it to Oz, before taking seat next to him.

“We’ve got a problem,” Oz said, voice loud and firm. Rio couldn’t help but feel like she was in a meeting. “Lugh Lámhfhada was found to be revived in Ireland.”

Coco’s eyes widened. “L-lugh? As in the god?”

Oz’s nod was grim and final. “Yes, as in him. Both the Queen of Summer Court and the Queen of Winter Court went off to check the location to make sure it is him, but even if it isn’t, that still is a problem. The way they detect presence in the sacred, sealed land is by energy and magic, and even if it isn’t truly Lugh, then it _has_ his magic and power. So whoever that was will be extremely powerful.”

“Is he... a threat?” Rio asked, fiddling with her fingers. She knew far less about the Celtic gods than Coco did, and she wished she wasn’t. But she knew a dire situation when she heard one.

“Maybe,” Oz said. “Lugh is a good god for the most part of history. He did a lot of things we’d consider barbaric today, but it is well within the societal morals in his days. But that is only if he is revived without any problems. The problem comes if he is corrupted.”

Oz’s gaze turned more solemn as he looked at her. “I myself have never seen Ewan until the very last moment. But whatever Patchman did to revive him, it didn’t bring him back in one piece. That’s what I fear about Lugh’s revival. While hopefully Patchman isn’t involved in this, resurrection is a messy business.”

“And you need Arago to... what?” Rio said.

“Brionac is the Spear of Lugh,” Oz said. “If we have to fight the most famed god in the Celtic pantheon, then our best shot is his own weapon.”

And with that he grabbed his phone, off to the next item in his list. The rest of them stayed silent as Oz barked orders at the other end, not giving them any chance to interject. His voice never rose, but Rio felt a twinge of pity for whoever was receiving the call. They must be clueless—and well, it wasn’t every day that a third party called the military and started ordering it around.

Still, it _was_ important. And now Rio couldn’t help but feel frustrated that nobody told her much about what actually happened.

Arago told her that Ewan was alive and with Patchman, and that he had the seed of Brionac, the Spear of Lugh. He also had been fighting supernatural beings for the past few months, and that was why he talked with Seth to begin with. But other than that, she knew nothing. She knew nothing of the Celtic myths themselves, having little time to read up on them, and she knew nothing about Ewan’s state, or how Arago got Brionac, or anything about Patchman. He was their enemy, but _what_ is he?

Oz ended the call and let the phone drop onto the wooden table with a _clack_. He sat back down and rubbed his temples, letting out a small half smile. “I’m glad I put that chip on his jacket.”

“Ewan did complain that he liked to run off well into the night,” Rio muttered.

Ewan’s complaints tend to be about Arago. Sometimes it made her dislike Arago a bit, but the next paragraph always explained why Arago did such a thing. If she was honest, she didn’t like Arago all too well during her early adolescence. It was the start of her crush on Ewan, after all, and Rio sort of saw what she wanted to see. Her mind painted Arago as this ungrateful kid who didn’t want to listen to Ewan, who only looked out for him.

But then she grew up and realised that their situation wasn’t so simple. Yes, Arago worried Ewan a lot and could be an immature brat, but it wasn’t all he was. His actions had reason, and Rio shouldn’t expect him to fare well after the death of their parents. Arago always insisted that their parents died from a murder, despite the fact that the official records said it was a fire. And when he could no longer trust the police to believe him, then what could he do?

So he resorted to doing things himself, because he’d been there. They’d both been there. For a decade Rio was torn between believing it was a fire and believing it was a murder. The subject came up only several times, and to be honest, Rio wasn’t sure if she wanted to think about it for too long. She could trust Ewan’s words wholeheartedly, but whenever she talked about it with her parents, they said it was a fire. And how could anyone prove otherwise? Their bodies were found burned, they said, and there was no proof of murder. But the twins weren’t the kind to lie just for attention.

But at the same time, Rio knew nothing. She lived in the other side of the world with nothing but letters connecting her to London.

The tension in the room was broken by Maria’s entrance. “Lunch,” she said, voice firm, and that was the end of it.


	7. Chapter 6

 

Arago was pissed. That much was clear, with his aura pulsating like a star of annoyance, but at least he didn't complain.

It was four in the afternoon when the Royal Air Force dropped by, handing him the man. Apparently after being dropped off, he went off to walk for another few kilometres, eager to burn off some energy. It was a growing problem, it seemed-- Oz wasn't sure whether it was his newly reunited Brionac or the fact that he now held the Orc too, but Arago needed sustenance less and less. Perhaps he needed less energy because his seeds provided it-- or perhaps something more sinister was going on. They needed to investigate this later, but later. Only after Oz got his point across.

"Why did you need to call the military to pick me up anyway?" Arago said once they sat in the living room. "Did something happen?"

"Yes," Oz said, face straight. "I'm taking you off guard duty to train now."

"I thought you were doing the seals," he said, eyebrows furrowed. "Did you already finish it or something?"

Oz shook his head. "Something more important came up. We need to improve your ability to control Brionac to its fullest extent now that you have both halves with you. I'm not sure whether we'll also delve within the Orc, but we will see."

The Orc was as much a mystery to him as it was to Arago, and Oz wasn’t sure if he was ready to open that can of worms. Seth took a large gamble when he summoned it. While whatever adverse effects it might have would be minute compared to Brionac, it was also something new. Oz knew about the Black Horseman’s attempt at creating a seed by killing numerous gremlins, but it was different. Gremlins had no magical powers of their own, and so their life power only created that: life power. But whatever made up the Orc’s seed must have quite a powerful wind magic.

And there were no power without a side effect. While it might have a less pronounced one, it might still exist. And in a way, being careless with the Orc might be more of a problem. Wind had a wider area of effect than a burst of Brionac, which often was focused on the hand. The trumpet style thing was another reason why Oz was hesitant on starting without more research.

Even though they didn’t know how and where the Orc formed, he had an inkling that it was an instrument of war.

Arago perked up at that. "So you mean you'll train me?"

"Yes."

His grin was far too bright and excited for someone who was going to be used as their first weapon against a god, but Oz supposed he hadn't gotten to that part yet. And he should.

"Sit down," he snapped. "You don't know the next part yet."

It took several seconds for Arago to settle down and maintain a semblance of calmness. His aura flickered with his enthusiasm, though-- Oz wasn't sure whether he wanted it to stop being so excited or whether he should be glad that Arago was. Ewan's re-death hadn't been kind to him, and last time Arago was still visibly affected by it. Oz doubted he'd be able to move on, at first. But perhaps he was projecting onto him. Or perhaps Arago was more resigned to life. That, or he was desperately clinging to the future, where Ewan might not be but wished things would be better. Sometimes Oz wondered if Arago was as fragile as he was.

But that was another thought for another time.

"I was working on the four Zoa seals when the Queens of the Fae Courts received word that Lugh Lámhfhada was revived," Oz started. "I don't know if he is a threat or not. But we both know that Ewan didn't come back to life in perfect condition and I worry that the same applies for Lugh. He is a god, so I don't know how we're going to defeat him if he is indeed corrupted. But we still have you, who have Brionac. It's a shame that Claíomh Solais was in the Cauldron of Dagda, as it could've been useful, but then again I don't know if anyone can wield it and I will not try to find out. But back to the point. I want to train you because I need you to be as strong as you can be before we have to face Lugh. If it happens that he is all right, then no problem. But I don't want to take chances."

Arago was silent for several moments as he took in Oz's words. His aura tapered out into a quieter shine now, and Oz felt a twinge of guilt for making it that way. As much as Arago's enthusiasm wore him out at times, he did deserve a break from fate. The fact that he was a civilian whose entire family was roped into the Patchman business and died brutally was something Oz wished he could change. Nobody deserved that life, and at the very least Albion members knew what to expect. They might not choose the life, but they weren't completely clueless.

"When do I start?" Arago asked.

"Do you have the energy if I say tonight?"

"Yeah. Of course."

Oz didn't doubt him. Brionac's light was brighter now that he had the full piece, and his recovery time must have improved. Oz heard that he took on several boxers at once, and one could only imagine how much better he'd be with the entire Brionac. So he nodded and pushed himself off the couch.

Only for his legs to falter and give way.

It wasn't as bad as falling on the floor, falling back onto the couch, but Oz's pride took a blow. He didn't have too much pride to begin with, but it looked like his therapist would laugh. Then reprimand him.

Nairne had given him another clump of herbs before he went back, and that kept him standing for the entire day. It seemed like that was the only reason he could even ride Unicorn. She helped him with muscle degradation that usually happened when a body part went unused for long periods of time, and he probably should thank her. He suffered a bit of degradation, but it wasn’t as bad as the first time, where they looked so thin and pitiful compared to his previous condition.

But better or not, it wasn’t good enough to not betray him.

“Oz?” Arago’s eyebrows were furrowed with worry and a hint of fear. Oz grunted.

“I haven’t been walking lately, and my legs got worse. Not as bad as the first time, though. Just give me a moment.”

He hadn’t been ready when he tried to stand up. So now he pushed himself up, hands firmly planted on the coffee table as he forced his legs to stand. The pain was coming back, but he gritted his teeth and moved until he was out of the couches. Arago watched him, aura flickering.

“Shouldn’t you go to that woman? Your, what... Therapist?”

“We’re in Scotland now, Arago,” he said. “I can’t drag her here. I’ll have to find a new one.”

Maybe Finny would know some good recommendation. It had been two years since Oz last called her, too, so maybe they could talk for a bit.

Finny was the Albion doctor who spanned both his generation and his parents’. Her name was actually Josephine, but for all his life he knew her as Finny. She was well into her seventies by now, and had retired five years ago. Charlie at first gave them looks for calling a doctor that, but eventually everyone joined. Even the Commander did so.

She was one of the first to help him after the others died. She was firm with her hugs and forced him to call, but after a few calls in the first months, it just... stopped. Work piled as they assumed that Oz went through his grieving stages and after a while he just couldn’t find the time to call her. She sent him presents every year, during his birthday and Christmas, but he could only order things from the internet in return.

“Don’t worry about me. Just get me my wheelchair, if you don’t mind. We’re still training tonight.”

Nothing could stop them from training as soon as possible. Oz was ready for this sacrifice.

* * *

 

The two of them walked into the outer rim of the forest an hour after dinner. The moon was a bright, pale yellow tonight, casting the only light out there, and the breezes were getting cold as winter crept on, but Arago stood with his short sleeved shirt. Oz himself had gotten a jacket, unwilling to fall victim to an unfortunate cold. They had too little time to waste.

"All right," Oz started, pulling out his pen. He turned on the little desk lamp they taped onto his wheelchair, on the armrest for his left arm, and looked up at Arago. "First of all, I need to know how much power you gained after getting the full Brionac."

Arago blinked but nodded.

The runes of Brionac and the Orc flickered to life with a bright flash before the leaking magic on his shoulder flared out. Oz could see the difference in intensity of the colours-- from what he knew, the Brionac half Patchman held was supposedly black. He had no clear answer to why the seed's light was intensified from the unity, or why Patchman's turned it dark, but perhaps there was something related to his body. Or mind.

Arago turned towards the trees and Oz watched as the magic gathered in his arm, creating external manifestations of magic around it. Interesting. But then he held it in front of him and a burst of magic shot out, obliterating the thick trees and curving in a u turn before disappearing.

"It... got stronger," Arago said, looking at his hand. Oz could see the steam and could almost smell the sickening smell of burn, but it soon faded away as Brionac went on to fix the damage it caused. Soon it would slowly decay it again from its attempt to heal. If that wasn't irony, Oz didn't know what is. "I know that already, but. It feels kind of different. It's easier to control, too."

"Do you think it's only Brionac or do you think the Orc's power is mixed in?"

Arago shook his head. "It's Brionac. The Orc is... weird. I know that it's the Orc-- it's like this thing in my head. Sometimes I can feel anger and frustration from it. And Brionac isn't something, but the Orc is. It's more than a seed."

Oz hummed before writing down Arago's words. This was something new to him. It seemed like whatever Seth summoned, it was far stranger and more obscure than Oz thought. Maybe he _did_ summon it with a pentagram. "What do you mean, thing?"

Arago looked away for several moments before turning back to him. "I... When Seth gave it to me, I saw something. It was like a flashback. I think it was his history, or childhood, or something. I couldn't understand it well, since it all happened at once, but that's how I know the woman who raised him died. And that he grew up in a church. There were a lot of crosses in the flash, and there was blood. And I think I saw the Orc there, when. When Seth summoned him."

Oz's pen stilled on paper. No, he would not write this. He probably should not know about this, and though the little devil could be a hassle, he was still a human and deserved a semblance of respect.

"I see. Anything else? Have you ever tried to use it?"

"I tried once, when I was in the forest when you were away, but I don't think I used it right. Like Seth always had those energy balls on his hands and all, the ones that can turn into that weird trumpet, but I don't think it works for me. It just goes all windy around me."

Oz raised his eyebrows before jotting it down. That should mean something. His easiest theory was that either the Orc wasn't meant for Arago's body, like the way Brionac would kill normal people, but then again, the Orc was supposed to be a normal seed. But at the same time, it couldn't have been. It did have a creature, after all. Not to mention that Seth gained those fae-like wings.

For example, when Scarlet activated her seed's power, she gained horn-like additions to her hair. Those weren't what one would call fae-like. The fire power was a bit different, too. Arago mentioned that Scarlet said that it worked like Brionac. So it couldn't be fae. By its nature, Brionac and any kind of fae magic were two different things. Brionac was from another land, after all, so it made sense that it was created differently with the same sort of power. And of the Orc wasn't like Brionac or Scarlet's seed, then Seth's case must have been pretty special.

"Maybe I should start asking you this. What do you feel when you use Brionac?"

Arago went quiet for several minutes, but Oz didn't prod him. Describing something that must have felt rather natural to him was probably hard. He didn't have to learn Brionac the way he had to learn the Orc. And for some reason, Oz could feel a hypothesis forming. What if Seth had to learn how to use the Orc the way Joe had to learn how to use his cane? Of course, this wasn't a hypothesis he could prove, at least not unless they get Seth out of Lia Fáil. And Oz had no idea how they could do that.

"It feels like a burst of power, I suppose," Arago said, shrugging. "I just focus on what I want to happen and when I try hard enough, it happens. I don't really know how to explain it. It happens when I want it to."

So will power and strong emotion were what fuelled Brionac. That made sense, since Brionac the spear itself was known for its bloodlust in the battlefield. It made sense that it was driven by emotion.

Claíomh Solais, on the other hand, was something quieter. Focused. It burned like no other, yes, but Oz could still feel the way it honed in on his thoughts-- which was, at that moment, to live. To live until she died. That might have been the only reason why he was alive. It felt like death, but he was alive.

"And what do you feel when you try to use the Orc?"

This time, Arago took even longer. Oz took the time to jot down Arago's earlier words before adding his own notes on Claíomh Solais. Scarlet's seed was of interest, too, since it formed a comparison to Seth's. Oz turned another page and continued, build on his earlier paragraphs with ideas and possibilities.

Arago's voice was more hesitant this time. "I feel like it's just... scattered. To me. Like if you try to blow a trumpet but you end up blowing it too hard?"

Well, at least that told him that Arago wasn't meant to play wind instruments. "Are you sure that it's not just your habits? Brionac is a lot about focus, but it's about emotion too, after all. For some reason, I feel like the Orc isn't like that."

That, or Brionac just was a lot less versatile than the Orc. While he hadn't witnessed much of what he heard, reports said that Seth was able to use his seed to do various actions. The way he whisked them away from the fight against Hugh was one thing. He also happened to know that the one who created the five metre hole in the street was him. Perhaps it was just because wind was a lot more versatile than Life, but Oz wondered if something else was at play.

After all, if it was just the former, Arago would've figured something out in the past two months. It had been that long, after all.

"Maybe," Arago said. "It's a lot harder to summon than Brionac. I think."

Hmm. That was some food for thought.

"All right, then. We won't get far focusing too much on the Orc. It's clearly not your strength. Let's move on to your training."

Admittedly, the training plan Oz started up was a rushed one. He had only several hours to brain storm, since he was unwilling to waste more time dawdling. But that meant that the plan wasn't optimised. He relied on the fact that they would do the same tomorrow at the moment, but now it looked less and less appealing.

But another thought crept in.

For the longest time, they'd called Patchman a wielder of Brionac. He used it as a weapon, after all, and one wielded a weapon in combat. But at the same time, there clearly was a difference between the way he used it and the way Lugh used it. The Spear of Victory had an external shell and could move on its own accord. Though Lugh could use it, he couldn't control it the way one could control a normal spear.

But Brionac burned away at Patchman, as it was too much for his body. Different people seemed to have differing ability to counteract the excess healing, hinting that this might be genetic. Perhaps it was something akin to immunity against illnesses. The cases tended to be genetical, or...

Oz was not a big reader. But sometimes he'd hear Finny talk about things she read-- mostly medical journals. For example, constant exposure to one thing often led to immunity. This was the case with some diseases, which affected people who weren't often exposed to it. It wasn't like chicken pox, where being exposed once meant total immunity, but it was more gradual. Oz couldn't remember the names or the specific details, as it all but flew above his head, but he knew that such a thing existed.

The thing with Patchman was that his bodies tended to burn away before long. So the majority of his victims must have been not very immune to the effects of excessive healing. But sometimes his bodies lasted. They had better immunity.

Could it be that some kind of exposure to Brionac made some people more immune than others?

It was a reaching idea, Oz knew. It was way out of his field, and he had nothing to prove him right, but it sort of made sense. There must have been a reason why some people, like the twins, had such good immunity against Brionac while he and Seth couldn't even handle it without dying within moments. And there must be an explanation as to why some people had a semblance of resistance to decay that didn't quite live up to the twins' but not as bad as his own. The immunity to Brionac wasn't a black and white, yes or no thing. It was a range, maybe even a bell curve.

The question was how.

How did it happen? What exactly constituted an exposure to life energy anyway? Would it be correct to assume that it happened, say, at birth? In the womb? Arago was confronted when he was seven, after all. And he seemed to be born with it. Or maybe he wasn't-- there was no way to prove it was the case.

He was getting nowhere.

"Oi, Oz."

"Yeah, yeah," Oz said, waving his hand. "I have a proposal, though. We'll try this for tonight."

Arago could well be jumping on the spot. "What is it?"

"Do you know the basics of meditation?"

It was as though something was dropped. "Wait, what?"

Oz tried to hold back a laugh at the indignant tone. "Calm down. I'm just asking. I just think that you might want to try meditation for tonight. Just tonight. If it doesn't work, then we'll change our approach tomorrow."

The item on his training plan was actually nothing more than a bold _'try the same thing Arago did to train himself'_ but he ignored it. He didn't know what this thing he was trying will do, but he had a hunch, and sometimes he trusted his hunch.

"This better be good," Arago grumbled after Oz raised his eyebrows for several minutes. He plopped down on the grass with a dulled thud. "...How do you do it?"

"Just close your eyes and try to pay attention to your thoughts. Don't actually think about them, but just... let it pass. Know what they are, but don't get too involved."

Arago made grumbling noises but followed what he did, eyes slowly closing. Oz turned off his lamp to help. Only the night bugs and shuffling animals filled the silence, and Oz could hear Arago's breathing slowing into something more peaceful.

Oz's lips quirked into a smile. For someone so angry and determined, he sure was getting the grasp of this quickly.

"This isn't working."

Maybe not.

"What do you mean?" Oz said, eyebrows raised. His hand reached aside to turn on the lamp again as Arago opened his eyes, arms spread with his hands on his knees. He scowled at Oz, though his eyes were off to the side.

"It feels weird," Arago said.

"What do you mean weird?" This was probably the first time he heard someone call meditation weird. Oz might not do it often, but he had tried once. It was new and in a way refreshing, to be detached, but he never felt it was weird. "Is it because it feels strange to be detached from your thoughts and feelings?"

Arago shrugged. "I don't know. I can hear my thoughts, but there was something just flaring up, like it's trying to latch on to the emotions. It was all bringing up how I felt about it, but I don't know, it just makes me feel it again. And it makes it worse. I don't know how you do that entire thing with letting it pass."

Oz frowned. Perhaps Arago wasn't doing it hard enough? Latching into thoughts was normal in the beginning, but he never heard it described as flaring. It wasn't uncommon for a beginner to accidentally wander off with the thought. But it didn't seem like Arago was describing the same thing.

"Do you mean you want to think about that thing more or was it something else?"

"It's like it won't let the thought go and made me all emotional." Arago rubbed the back of his neck, aura flaring in frustration. "It's annoying, but it just kept happening."

"How about another go, this time longer? Maybe it's because you just started and tried it for less than five minutes." And maybe because Oz himself didn't-- and couldn't-- explain the concept and techniques well. He should've called Choi. But it was late and he already declared the training with Rio over until further notice. She probably already went back to the village, ready to return to Edinburgh. "Let's just give it a try, okay? We can move on later."

Arago grumbled once again but shifted into a comfortable position. But this time he sat still for longer, though Oz now noted that the peaceful breathing he took in wasn't really all that peaceful. It sounded like a normal one, just a beat deeper and longer. Most people tended to fall into a deep, even breathing when they relaxed, since that was a natural act. And there was just no way Arago could've lived life for so long and not hear the entire 'take a deep breath and relax' thing, considering his tendency to get riled up.

A thought crept in. Maybe Arago had anger management issues. Though then again, no. He had an excessively loud way to show his emotions, especially anger, but he didn't seem the type. He did have a reason to be angry, after all, and often it wasn't even anger he showed during battle. He just yelled a lot. He was kind of like those loud male protagonists in cartoons. Oz saw them from time to time, especially in things like hospital waiting rooms-- they would yell all angry as they gave their final blow.

Oz sighed. Maybe they should just get back to checking out the full extent of Arago's new power instead of this.

"I can't do this," Arago shouted, falling back onto the grass. "The more I try, the angrier I get."

"...What exactly did you try to focus on?" Oz asked, peering at his unmoving form.

"I tried to focus on candies," Arago admitted. "But then it just went to how angry I was that I couldn't pocket that many candies when I go down into those forests with all the monsters and stuff and then how angry I was that I couldn't buy them in the middle of the forest. It's kinda stupid."

Wow. And if something was stupid by Arago's standards, they were indeed impressive.

But...

That reminded him of one thing. "Didn't you say that Brionac was fuelled by emotions, though?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Do you think that it might be the effects of Brionac?" After all, Arago did admit that it was stupid and pointless to think like that. There just wasn't going to be a convenience store in the middle of Scottish and Welsh forests. And if there was one, Oz would be very worried. The idea of Brionac triggering that was plausible, though without basis.

"You mean like if Brionac is the reason why I'm being emotional about that?" Now Arago sounded interested, pushing himself upright. "But what does it mean, though?"

What could it mean? Oz didn't know. It could be that Brionac was interfering with his thought processes. Or it could be that Arago was naturally fit to be Brionac's wielder because of his thought processes. But the way he worded his experience leaned towards the former. And yet, it didn't seem likely that Lugh himself turned blood thirsty when he tried to wield Brionac.

Unless Arago was Brionac.

It was a wild idea, he admitted. But what if Arago was a form occupied by Brionac, the same way the spear was its former form? He recalled a folklore that said that the weapons became the Seeds they now knew as the Treasures of Erinn. But what would happen when a seed became one with a body? Would it not infuse them with the power? The way they thought about Brionac and Claíomh Solais made it sound like they were weapons to be used, but not that they were the weapons itself. But it made sense. Arago wasn't using something that held the seed, like Lugh did. He was the spear.

And Brionac wasn't something that wanted quiet contemplation. It wanted emotions. And like the way it lusted for blood, it lusted for its power to flare out. When it was a spear, it had freedom as a spear had no thoughts nor control. But humans did. Humans could get distracted, could zone out, could control themselves. They could be swayed.

And oh. The Queen of Winter Court said this not too long ago, too. The pot that held the milk of poppy that used to tame the Spear of Lugh was broken. This was a hypothesis with even less ground to stand on, but he wondered-- did the liquid spill?

Could it be that something happened because of it?

"Geez," Arago grumbled, rolling his shoulder. "If you're going to space out so often I'm just gonna go train by myself."

"No," Oz said, voice firm. "You're sitting here and meditating."

"What? I thought you said that we can move on if this doesn't work!"

Oz shook his head. "I said only if it doesn't work. And it works. Not in the way you think, but it works. I want you to gain complete control of your thoughts. No emotional outbursts. Just try to control yourself."

Arago narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Because I think that it's important for you to completely separate yourself from Brionac," Oz said. "I don't want you to be influenced by it. If you're getting riled up because of it, then there's a chance you will lose control because it eggs you into being more and more emotional. And that might spell disaster."

Yes. This was probably the best way to go right now. He would have to research more and perhaps send letters to the Courts for more answers, but as crazy as this was, Oz had a feeling he was on the right track.

"We don't have much time left. I demand your very best for the safety of everyone."

This time Arago was silent as he fell back into his meditation.

* * *

 

The morning came all too soon for Oz. Last night stretched all the way into midnight, with Arago rousing him awake after he finished-- not that Oz knew what his definition of finished was-- and he felt the exhaustion of yesterday catching up to him. Riding his horse for an entire day after half a night of carving things and then continuing on to train Arago was a lot more demanding than he thought. Though then again, that meant that Oz had been up for over twenty four hours. Again.

The light thud of a deer trying to get her head through the window for the second time the past month wasn't all that welcome.

The kitchen was empty and cleaned up when Oz walked past it, but the others lingered in the dining room, apprehension written on their faces. Perhaps Arago told them about last night. Rio seemed to be talking in a quiet voice to Arago, as Coco traced the head of her staff with her thumb, but they all stopped when Oz walked in.

"Yo," he said as he sat on the table, reaching for the only plate of bangers left. "You don't need to stop because of me, you know."

"A-ah, no," Rio said, waving her hand. "I was just talking to Arago about meditation things. It's nothing too important."

"If you say so," Oz said, impaling his breakfast. "This morning I want you guys to actually try to apply what you learned before."

Coco looked up, but Rio's eyes grew wide. Arago's aura flickered in hesitance, but it wasn't anything big. Maybe he just doubted the effectiveness of last night's meditation on his ability to wield Brionac. It did come out from the left field, after all. But Oz wasn't casting the idea aside just yet. It was too soon.

"But the pelt..." Rio said. "I'm not sure if I'll be able to really control it just yet."

Oz nodded at Arago. "There's no need to worry. The one who acquired the pelt itself was Arago, after all. And it wasn't as if the wolf itself is everything feral and all that jazz. Didn't Arago say that it willingly accepted a duel? Normal wolves don't do that with humans, you know. And Arago knows how to force it off its wearer."

"I'm not hurting Rio," Arago interjected.

"I'm not saying you have to hurt her," Oz started. "But she's not going to get any better at controlling it if we don't give her the ability to actually wear it, as much as you can't get any better with the Orc if you never tried to use it. Imagine if you don't ever use Brionac after your first fight with Patchman. Not to mention, that was the reason why I asked her to meditate. It's not something I did just to occupy her time while I go-- I wanted her to be able to find herself whenever she needed to."

They fell silent as Oz finished the rest of his plate, savouring the taste. He was too relaxed for the day, he mused. Next thing he should teach Arago and Coco was looking at auras, because they couldn't sense a thing. His control over his own was too good for their untrained eyes to catch.

"We're starting this morning," Oz added as he hobbled out of the dining room to put his dishes away. "Get into the field at nine am and wait for me."

A glance at the clock told him that it was eight twenty. That should be enough for a shower. He'd take faster if he was on his best, but it was slightly hard to move around with only one arm and leg, especially in the bathroom. The fact that he lost both limbs on the same side just added to the burn. But hey, he made it up in experience. He’d get through the day somehow.

Oz got out of his room fully clothed within thirty five minutes. At least that was something. He did get there in time, after all.

The three were already lingering in the backyard when he rolled out. Rio held the pelt in her hands, hugging it to her body, while Coco gripped her staff until her knuckles paled. Arago was the only one calm, for once, and Oz waved as he rolled onto the grass. Rio and Coco immediately snapped into a straight position.

"There's no need to be that tense," Oz commented. "Relax. We'll start slow for you two. First, Coco, I want you to stand next to me. Rio, Arago, move a bit further. About twenty steps, maybe. Yes, good. Now put on the pelt."

Rio bit her lips as she donned the fur. The change was instant-- the werewolf made an abnormal roar as it came out-- but it jerked back a strike, almost as if it caught itself at the last minute.

Oz smiled. "If you can hear us, nod once."

The werewolf's only response was a light tremor for several moments, but it jerked its head up and down, and Coco beside him sighed in relief. Oz's smile widened as the tremor slowly stilled, transforming into a shaky stance. Arago took a step back, aura no longer shifting in worry. Letting her take the pace, Oz waited as Rio grasped for better control.

"Now, Arago, keep an eye on her." At Arago's nod, Oz turned to Coco. "Are you ready for something a bit ballsy?"

Coco took a deep breath before nodding.

"Try Úr."

Úr meant earth, soil, and it shouldn't deviate too much from that. Different staves have different abilities and different interpretation of runes, hence the various woods used, but the fact that Coco's current staff was an Alder one meant that it shouldn't be too dangerous. It was used more as a shield, and Oz knew enough from the way Joe used it. Any more attack-oriented staff and that vine he used to grab Arago would be more like a violent whip.

Coco took in a deep breath and drew an Úr. The effect was immediate-- earth around them turned into clay, and within seconds Rio and Arago were ankle deep in it and sank in fast. The werewolf roared, poised to strike, but it jerked back once again, shoulders shaking. The tremors were stronger this time, and Oz curbed down the sense of pity that grew. She needed to learn this. She needed to learn how to control the beast. This time she still had Arago to engage her if she went out of control. He did hear that Coco was somehow and somewhat able to calm her down, but Oz wasn't here to take such big gambles. If she could claim her control when she was being attacked, he could let her off.

The rune was fading and Oz nodded. "Arago, Rio, get out of there. It will harden soon and if you don't leave now you'll have to be dug out of it."

It didn't take long for Arago to drag Rio out, grumbling about him and sadism.

"What I planned for today is for Coco to attack Rio for a bit," he said. "I need her to be able to maintain her control despite this all. I hope you're ready, Arago."

As the morning turned into noon, Coco's stance straightened and Rio's shaking stilled. He could almost see her become less wolf-like, with some of the furs receding, and Arago now looked a lot more relaxed. His eyes still stared at her, ready to intervene, but his aura flickered around like normal now. Rio sustained minor injuries from the attacks, but it should be light. Oz had made sure that they weren't pulling out the big guns yet, like the fire Joe did back with Scarlet. Oz nodded as Coco engraved her last rune for the day-- Coll, hazel.

It did nothing for several moments, but then a small rumble came. And from the earth burst forth water, which rained on them. The Alder staff should imbue the act with healing, as it reinforced the rune's natural power. And it did-- Rio was still as the momentary rain doused her wounds.

"All right," Oz said, grinning. "Everyone did great today. Coco, you're getting very adept at your runes. I know it can be hard when there's quite a bunch of them and they all have different effects. And I know that the Leprechaun is trying to teach you how to string sentences, which can be confusing. But you did well. Rio, you're doing wonderful. Your control is very good and I salute you for holding it back so well. You can turn back now-- it's time for you to go to lunch."

Coco let out a giggle in her happiness but then there was a roar-- and Rio was hunched over him, claws raised. Oz didn't have the time to open his mouth when suddenly she was jerked back by a flash of light and slammed against the wet ground. Arago sat on the werewolf before reaching and unzipping the pelt, ripping it away from Rio.

And she rolled to her side, curling.

"A-ah..."

Oz and Coco rushed to her side as Arago threw the pelt aside and grabbed her shoulders. "Are you okay, Rio?"

She cracked open an eye. "S-sorry. I let my guard down. Sorry Oz."

"No. You did very well, despite that. But that also means that I have to watch what I say carefully now." It seemed like the concept of relaxing wasn't allowed just yet. She maintained her control through focus, and the idea of letting go of that control was enough to make the wolf side take over. "I'm sorry I triggered that, too. But let's just go back inside for now. You girls have the rest of the afternoon free. Arago, throw me the pelt."

Arago did just that before helping Rio up, Coco on her other side. The girl shook off their help after she stood up, grimacing at the mud on the back of her shirt. Oz was almost glad that he was outside of it-- he knew from experience that the mud around here stuck and harden quite bad. He was in her position about twice a week back when he was still fifteen. "I need to take a shower."

"I'll give you guys time to shop later," Oz said. "On me."

He had no idea when they'd be able to cash in that promise, but well, it was the thought that counted. He did have a lot of his wage piling up, idle. After the twentieth online tea purchase and the thirty balls of expensive wool he bought, he wasn't sure what he could spend his wage on. He probably should be glad that he had money to spend, but it was kind of pointless when every expenses he ever had was paid for by the country and that the only big thing that warranted a lot of purchases was gone. Oz splurged on his siblings' birthday and Christmas presents. With them dead, he couldn't exactly do that anymore. His knitting projects had been put on hold since he couldn't knit with one arm and one leg. That left tea, and there was a limit to how much he could drink tea in one day.

"But thank you again," Oz said, giving the girls a smile. "You guys did great."

They walked back to the house, Coco pushing his wheelchair. But even as the tension thawed and Rio went back to conversing with Arago and Coco, Oz stared at his hand. Things might be progressing better than he anticipated, but he couldn't let his guard down. Time was ticking, and he didn't know how much of it they had left.

Staring at the blinding midday sun, Oz hoped that Lugh himself wasn't as deadly as the object he represented.


End file.
